Needs and Wants
by dozefallsdownthestairs
Summary: Insatiable, egocentric billionaire, Arthur Kirkland is always looking for the next bauble to add to his collection of antiques. When contracting unconventional thief, Alfred Jones to steal a plane from the Smithsonian, he's surprised by how much something he wants turns into something he needs. USUK AU
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, guys. This is a bit of an idea I've had lying around and decided to give a go. It's USUK in case you didn't get that from the intro ;p I'll be including other characters and the like and I reckon this'll be quite a fun write. Hope you enjoy it!- doze**

It was with a tip of his hat and a charming old smile that Alfred Jones won his way through the system. He hadn't much money and he hadn't many connections (or so at first) , but what he did have was an infectious manner sprung from wherever the rumors happened to land. And they landed, good god, nearly everywhere across this whole glittering gem of a globe. I'd be lying if I pretended I'd known at first where he came from, and indeed where he planned on going.

He was just the sort of man to appear from one place and disappear to another. As a general rule, I could not stand him. It wasn't his dodgy smile, though that did have a way of working itself against my nerves and getting me to believe he was quite a bit more manipulative than he seemed. No, it wasn't his smile. I regrettably admit to knowing it starts sitting much better after a couple of drinks. And it wasn't his haphazard appearance, the way he seemed to throw on clothes like the wind threw leaves against the roof. No, it wasn't that. In fact, I would once again regrettably admit to knowing that he threw them _off _just about as fast.

The real reason and I say this completely sober with all of my garments completely accounted for is that he doesn't care. Now, I don't pretend to be an overly sentimental chap. I don't go around with emotional displays, and I certainly don't bother with people who do. It merely seems a bit, frankly, callous to me is all... that so much could have happened and all it has to do is rain again and everything is washed clean. I don't like thinking this way, but I suppose I am a bit like flypaper. Everything sticks with me. Alfred, on the other hand... at least to the extent that I've been able to crack him, works a lot like a water spout. Everything is in through his ears, out through his mouth and gone.

It's really no use mooning over it at this point. I figure I can write my real thoughts here, for lack of a better cliche way of recording my complaints. The worse would only be had if damn Francis got a hold of this. He's going to kill himself over me someday, and I'm only hoping it'll be soon so he can stay the hell out of my business from now on. This really is more of an abstract whinging and I do apologize... Hell, I'm only writing this for myself. The point of the matter is: My name is Arthur Kirkland and I haven't got a clue where he hid the money. I was rather... preoccupied at that moment in time that he most certainly stole it from me. I'd rather not go into detail over what we were doing, and if he opens his goddamn mouth about it, I'm swearing him off. In fact, I already am. I hope I never see his good-for-nothing face again. The whole ordeal of how I came by the money and how I met him are ultimately irrelevant. I'm sure he doesn't care whether I say or don't. He's long gone. But perhaps... the memories are still stuck a bit, like the engine, stalling, stalling, stalling, before the ignition finally clicks. Once I pull one up, I'll be living his goddamn story all over again. You understand, hell, _I understand _I don't want to go through that torture again. I have ample evidence that he has the money, that I was completely innocent in possessing it before, and that Alfred F. Jones is a bloody bastard who'll take you for all your worth. In the words of a man who's been there and suffered, don't ever listen to him.

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Alfred carefully adjusted his tie and tugged a bit at the worn cuffs of his shirt. He wore a concentrated frown, usually reserved for the precise moment before a home run hit out in the dusty byway between old buildings, but now quite focused on the fact that he couldn't seem to get his apparel to hold together.

One moment, the buttons were falling off, and the next, the elbow pads of his dinner jacket were flopping like loose seal flippers. He wasn't much accustomed to nice clothing. He'd even heard Mattie refer to it as luxury once, but it was hardly a luxury getting it all to work together. He'd rather spend his money on more interesting things than a harmonizing outfit, unfortunately, which was why he often left looking like a bird with a coat-of-many-colors type of feathers. This get-up usually got him a suitable amount of attention at get-togethers, so he figured it was serving its purpose. Besides, this old jacket was his grandpa's and so were the suspenders. He liked to wear things with a bit of history to them, kept him believing in his own soon-to-be legend on damp days.

With a resigned toss of his bangs, he set to working on his hair now. He was bit of a fan of greasers, and it was a pain for everyday, but when he could, he didn't hesitate to swoosh back like Elvis and the street boys used to. Tonight, he'd be dining well so it called for a bit of grandeur anyway. Not that they would really like the look of him. They never did.

Swiping his pack of cigs and popping one in his mouth, he figured he was all set. His favorite Harley was waiting for him at the door, and he did so love the sound of that ignition firing up, knowing with resigned enthusiasm that half of his outfit would be blown away before he even got there. It was from the slums to the city tycoons, and the dealers to the collectors that Alfred traveled. He considered himself a middleman, a go-between. A bit of your this, a bit of your that, and a bit of your everything. But without a little of his magic, a deal never went through.

Tonight, he would be gracing a swanky establishment, a New York penthouse in the heart of the city owned by a particularly wealthy collector. Alfred had been trying to get in touch with him ever since he'd first seen the ten digit figures of his account when perusing bank transcripts online for another client. It'd been a bit difficult. Alfred was used to working with foreigners, and wealthy, stodgy ones at that, but he'd never had this hard of a time flushing one to his home territory.

You see, he refused to meet them on other grounds; they had the advantage. But here, Alfred was alpha dog, and he knew it. He had a feeling that his next client knew it, as well, judging by his utter care in planning their first meeting. Alfred might have known he would do it somewhere public, because nothing was more intimate than a party and there wasn't even a hummingbird's beat of chance they'd be overheard. He wasn't upset by it either. He loved a hell of a good party, and he was hell good at being the life of it.

He came up on the rich area of town, half-expecting the police to stop him merely for his rather pieced together looks. Looks were assumptions. It was a trick of the trade. If Alfred wanted to slip by them without a second glance, he would have dressed like a business man, carried a brief case, and made sure his Rolex was peeping just a bit out of his jacket sleeve. Looks were assumptions. And assumptions were everything. Especially in Alfred's current employment. He judged by looks and he played by looks.

Take for example, this party. He knew the whole thing was a ruse already, a ruse to talk to him, exchange information, and set up another meeting plan. How? Well, he happened to know that his next client was a bit of a shut-in. He'd made all his major purchases online and through agents over the past several years. Hardly ever venturing from that mighty home base of his in London. It was out of character to throw a party, sorely out of character. The sorts of things he bought were a bit... nerdish for lack of a better word. Alfred had never understood people who paid millions for an old tome or the like. He hardly complained though. Nerdish history relics were unwaveringly expensive, and often made for his very best stories.

He mounted the steps with an easy confidence, cigarette dangling from his lips with a lazy stripe of smoke. The buzzer made a squawking noise at him, informing him that the whole of the top floor was open for anybody. He was in the right place. A couple of rickety seconds later, he stepped off the elevator into a room bursting to the seams with music and darkness and that fragrant scent of underhand that always did attract him in the first place.

With his hands in his trouser pockets, he took to a sauntering around. Accepting a glass of champagne, frivolously expensive. He melded in with the mass of bodies easily. In the dim light, no one could tell he didn't belong. He put on their manner as he walked, laughing, pushing, drinking. It was part of the act and the scope. He needed a good vantage point, and he soon found one atop the counter with a drunk billionaire.

Smiling agreeably, he slipped his card into the man's breast pocket. The house was stuffed and uncomfortably hot and loud. When he actually took the time to look around at parties, it always killed the mood. People could be sort of disgusting when they let loose. He preferred to go into these things blind if he was going to really enjoy them.

He was looking for the sore thumb, because he knew that's where he'd find the money. It didn't take him long. Perking up considerably, he hopped off the counter, straightened his hopeless suit and then reached under the bar for where the good stuff was always kept. Grabbing what was at least a three hundred dollar bottle.

The man wasn't drinking. That was what mainly gave him away. Among other things. He was trying not to touch anyone with his back pressed so much into the far wall, it was amazing he didn't push a hole right through it. The overconfident, holier-than-thou attitude he wore was beginning to splinter off, in bits and pieces as paint chips off wood. First, by the slight twitch of an eyebrow, then by a convulsive swallow. Alfred weaved his way calmly past the masses, humming. This was always so fun.

He came upon the man, purposefully running into him like he was drunk.

"Watch where you're going, idiot," he scowled and shoved Alfred off of him, quickly folding his arms across his chest again like so much as touching Alfred was disgusting. This was his guy.

"You're Mr. Kirkland, I presume?" He slurred, not giving up his act quite yet.

"Well, you're at my bleeding penthouse, are you not?" Mr. Kirkland frowned and tugged at his tie, drawing Alfred's attention to his rather staunch outfit. He was wearing a waistcoat, which seemed to have come from another time and a suit jacket with actual tails. He would have laughed. It was funny, but he sort of liked it. Definitely had that healthy amount of old history to it.

"Y-yes, I suppose it is," He agreed, leaning into him and enjoying how he physically balked under Alfred's weight. He wasn't very tall. Maybe five-eight at a stretch. Not very strong. Indoor type for sure. Alfred could understand why he usually hired folks to do his bidding.

"G-get off of me!" He stuttered in half-shock and half-rage, trying and failing to push him away. "Who even are you? I never-" He cut himself off suddenly, and it was then that Alfred noticed how very green his eyes were. They shone cuttingly like Indian rubies. He was a sharp one. "You're him, aren't you?" He asked shrewdly, ceasing in his efforts to shove Alfred off.

Alfred straightened genially, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Kirkland. It's a swanky fest you've got going, I'd say. Oh! I've forgotten my manners." He smiled devilishly under his client's incredulous eye and produced a flattened fedora from the inner folds of his scrap suit. Making a show of it, he popped it back into a wrinkled, pitiable shape and swung it up on his head to repeat himself proper. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Kirkland." He tipped his hat. "I assure you I am not drunk and I presume, we have a deal to be making."

"Dear god, you're him? I was at least expecting someone with..." he trailed, gesturing Alfred up and down arrogantly. Maybe he didn't mean it, but someone could sure teach him some manners.

"So my dress offends you, Arthur?" Alfred dropped formality in kind and just as quickly, pulling a wad of bubblegum from his pocket and taking to smacking on it loudly.

"_You_ offend me," Arthur sniffed, pulling back from him with a harsh scowl, "It's Mr. Kirkland to you. I don't care what you know about me. You will not address me that way. I refuse to have some..." he trailed again, looking for a bad enough term, "street mongrel treat me as his equal."

"You best be careful there, babe," Alfred blew a large bubble and popped the cork off his wine. "If you want my help, you'll have to talk a bit nicer than that. I don't work for the dollar you know, just the debonair." He flashed an excruciatingly irritating smile.

Arthur frowned harder, his hands jumping apprehensively to his jacket pocket, like he was worried Alfred would rob him. He still talked big, though, for his runt-ish position. "I can hire another. I don't _need _your help."

"Nobody _needs _my help," Alfred agreed. "In fact," he threw a harsh eye down the length of Arthur's lavish clothing. "I would say you don't _need _anything. You _want _something. I don't know if you realize this, but I work with your type every day of my life. You don't know what _need _is." He paused, because Arthur had gone rigidly defensive, hands tightening to fists around his jacket coat haughtily. Alfred snorted. "Rest assured. I don't give a shit. There are things I _want _too. But I'd rather not misuse the term need for your future reference. You and I don't need anything. Now..." he held up the uncorked wine. "You got a back room you wanna do this in, or what?"

He almost expected Arthur to argue with him, send him out. But he gathered himself and turned to the far hallway, not looking back to see if Alfred was following. It was a dimly lit bedroom that they ended up in. Alfred wondered why dimly lit was the fashion. It made seeing so much harder. He sprawled on the bed, carelessly, finding the TV remote and flicking it on. Arthur had settled uncomfortably against the edge of a writing desk, waiting with his hands folded on his crossed knee.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Explain your terms. I'm all ears."

"I think you know why you're here," Arthur muttered pithily, just to be difficult probably.

Alfred grinned. "Alright, I'll wager a guess. You want some artifact from some museum. You've got the money for what it's worth, but the museum is being an ass and doesn't want to sell it to you. The reason you're hiring someone with my talents is that you want me to hook you up with someone to steal it for you, right?"

"Wrong." A smile flickered vaguely on Arthur's lips.

Alfred continued, undeterred. "Then it's from someone else's personal collection?"

"Oh, you weren't wrong about the museum bit."

"And they won't sell it to you?"

"Yes."

"Then..." Alfred let a bit of confusion seep into his tone, "do tell me why I'm wrong."

"Oh, you already know," Arthur waved a hand at him in mock impatience, smile growing wider, glutted.

"Know what?" He asked innocently, but the suspicion was making his heart start to beat.

"Are you really going to make me say it? Well, if I must," Arthur gave a gleeful sort of chuckle that left Alfred falling. "You're going to steal it _for_ me."

"Pfft. Me? You don't want me stealing it," Alfred growled, spitting the gum in the bin and taking a hearty swig from his wine bottle. "I'll hook you up with someone. That's what I do."

"No..." Arthur raised a massive eyebrow, the ghost of a smile still hiding on his lips. "You're the thief. I'll pay you directly, thank you very much. I know your game."

Alfred held his gaze, searching his green eyes. He knew.

"I was hoping there wouldn't be so many pretentions," Arthur put up airily with a languid grin.

"Bastard..." Alfred chuckled in disbelief. "You realize I'm still gunna charge you sky high, right?"

"Oh, I realize, but it's much better than having to pay for two people when they're really both you," Arthur shot back, smirking. "I am impressed how many you've fooled with your game. Middleman, my ass. You're a jack of all trades."

"Comes with the territory. Tell anyone and you will regret it." Alfred said it all with a smile, offering him the bottle and being somewhat surprised when he took it.

"Oh, I expect. Now, let's get down to business. There's something I want." He wiped the mouth of the bottle with a maroon handkerchief swiftly, leaning forward with greedy, glowing eyes.

"Yes..." Alfred whispered, watching him take a deep swig and feeling like he'd played himself into the hands of someone a lot more capable than he had expected. "Is it a painting?"

"Nope," Arthur grinned candidly, going silent, except for the swashing of three hundred dollar wine down his throat.

"Then a bust or a statue?" Alfred frowned. Those were a bit more complicated.

"Nope."

"Well, a vase?"

"Nope."

"Geez," he laughed, "if you don't damn tell me, I can't help you, ya know?"

Arthur nearly smiled, fingering with the label on the bottle. "It's something I've been wanting for a very long time."

"Well, what is it?" Alfred asked and when Arthur finally looked up his eyes were shining with so much desire, it had him shifting nervously.

"A plane." He whispered, fingers tightening sharply around the wine.

"A..." Alfred blanched, "Like a model?"

"No, the real aeroplane," Arthur snapped impatiently as if he were beyond idiotic, "What would I do with a pesky model of the thing, anyway? Especially when I can have the real one."

"A real..." Alfred felt like his composure had deserted him at this point. "From what museum?"

"The major one of course, Smithsonian." Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. "Which one did you think I was referring to?"

"We have more than one museum in the United States," Alfred spat back, tired of his snooty tone. "I'll... I'm going to... I'll... I'll charge a... a fortune for that," he growled and added in his head _if it's even possible. _

"Oh my," Arthur sneered, taking a large gulp from the bottle and standing. "I sense you're chickening out on me."

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "I sense that you're insane. You want me to steal an airplane? That's all fine and dandy on paper, babe. But do you know how many security cameras are posted in the front lobby alone? How many alarms? How many guards? How many motion sensors? I've charged out the wazoo for stealing a freaking document from that place, let alone a whole hulking mammoth airplane."

"Yes... but I distinctly remember telling you I'd be willing to pay," Arthur came to stand in front of him, placing hand on his hip. "And if you won't be able to, I'll find someone else."

Alfred fell silent, looking up at him. The heat of the moment glowed in his eyes and on his slightly flushed cheeks. It wasn't hard to tell how much he wanted it. As soon as he started talking about it, his tongue had loosened. Alfred couldn't understand why he'd want a plane of all things, but he obviously did. His gaze flowed down to Kirkland's regal dress, tracing the fine tailoring of the suit jacket, the silk kerchief, the embroidered waistcoat, and the real gold chain of a pocket watch. He had the money. Alfred supposed all that was left to decide was whether he himself had the guts.

"Well... you've put me in a mighty tight situation," Alfred noted, leaning back casually, watching as Arthur took another rather ungentlemanly sip straight from the bottle. "But I'll admit... I think I can do it..." he chuckled in disbelief, "I'll get you a plane."

"Oh, I already have several," Arthur waved a hand dismissively. "I just nee-"

"Want," Alfred interrupted, standing. "You just want this one. You know, you're a greedy bastard. Why don't you just build yourself a plane?"

Arthur smirked, "If I'm a greedy bastard, you're a no-good thief. And besides, you know nothing of principle. I can't build myself a genuine artifact." He rolled his eyes.

Alfred chuckled wryly, offering his hand. "That's why you'll be the boss, but I'm warning you. I'll need materials for this and quite possibly back-up."

"I'm more than capable," Arthur snipped icily, pushing the bottle into Alfred's hand rather than shake it. "We'll be in touch. Here." He scrawled a quick number on a sheet of stationary and shoved that into Alfred's hand as well. "You can reach me on that number. I'll tell you then which one and what exhibit it's in. When you're ready, we'll head to D. C. I'll pick up all charges."

Alfred nodded, shoving the scrap in his pocket. "I'm sure it'll be a pleasure working with you, Kirkland. Before I go..." He reached up and took off his hat, laying it against his heart with a wicked grin. "I swear I'll do my best to get you what you ask for. If I'm caught, I will in no way affiliate myself with you and will accept all charges. But... be warned. I play a fast game and anytime before that and anytime after that is fair game. There are things I want too."

Arthur snorted, "I'm not going to get tricked by you. I've already seen through your first ruse. You're barely a concern of mine. Be grateful I decided to call on you."

Alfred smiled, placing his hat back on his head. "There's no one else stupid enough to try to steal a plane from the Smithsonian. I'm the only one you could call on. It's not like we're living in Night at the Museum, here."

"Mmm." Arthur gave him a disapproving look, looking a bit tipsy as he leaned in the doorway now, blocking Alfred's way out. "We'll keep in contact. I expect, you'll be brainstorming and I'll want to hear all of your ideas before implementation. I am not getting caught up in some elaborate web of lies from the start."

Alfred grinned crookedly, coming to stand in front of him, holding out both his hands. "Ah, you wound me. I'm not going to try to steal from you, especially if you're paying full price. I don't want anything with a plane and it'd be a bit hard to get back to my house unless it works... Does it?"

"In principle..." Arthur muttered, his brow furrowing. "But in reality, probably not."

"So what makes you want an old broken plane so bad? Nostalgia?"

"For one, I'm not that old," Arthur snapped so sharply Alfred knew he had hit a nerve. "And for two, I've never flown in a plane before."

Alfred stared, "How did you get here then?"

"I'll assume you've heard of water transportation or is that too rudimentary for your American mind to understand?"

"That's..." Alfred chuckled, "just a bit odd. But whatever, to each their own. Does make me wonder why you'd want a plane then."

Arthur drew himself up then to his full height and crossed his arms haughtily. "It's principle. I want one, so I'll get one."

Alfred grinned, leaning so suddenly forward it caused Arthur to take a step back. "I'll bet you always get what you want, am I right?"

He scowled, tugging at his tie in a flustered manner. "I don't have to tell you anything. I'm paying you. Go on. Leave. I have nothing else to say."

Alfred nodded mildly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It'll be a pleasure working with you, Arthur. A right pleasure."

**Review, please? (I feel like the people Santas asking for donations around this time of year haha)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Heya guys! Wow, I'm surprised that anybody found this and liked it! Thanks!**

**Special thanks to my reviewers: hexa, Sandra DeNite, and Thisis. You're super encouraging!**

**Also this should be updated weekly, if I have any say in it. So check around then. Thanks. -doze**

With his ball cap on backwards and a bit of tobacco tucked in his cheek, Alfred leaned against one of the glossy stone walls of the Grand Central Terminal. Around him, the place was alive with footsteps, slapping and slamming, and crisp click-clacking, each noise a mirror image of the person them self. Harsh slaps for businessmen. Sassy clacks for stiletto-heeled managers. And the ever present thumping noise of the tennis shoes of the normal folks.

The sunlight sliced and criss-crossed through the high-up windows like so many blinding spotlights. The humdrum tower of a room was settling into the steady shuffle of late risers or the jogging beat of late workers and already the shouts were becoming echoes and gone around him. Alfred was just waiting for that certain sound.

Today, it was a bit chilly, the air outside plunging all its New Yorkers into the first day of December with a wonderful splash of frigid ice wind. He'd donned his Yankees cap for just such an occasion and the scarf his mother had knit him some four years ago. The elbows were skinned clean through on his favorite winter jacket, but it didn't matter today. The person he was meeting would only recognize him in his traditional gear, Budweiser t-shirt, scuffed up Nikes and all.

Glancing up, his smile widened a bit and he leaned forward. "Mattie!" He called with a big old grin and just barely restrained himself from giving into the desire for a big old bear hug as well. As it were, Matthew allowed him a pat on the back and that was good enough for now.

Alfred stood smiling for a couple of minutes, hands jammed in his pockets, just taking in the sights. He hadn't seen Matthew in nearly forever, and he could barely keep himself contained. Mattie's hair was long now, curling against his shoulders. And Alfred wrinkled his nose a bit at it. He'd always known his step-brother was Canadian, but the long hair made him seem like some kind of real snow-braving native, not the little kid who'd once shared his ridiculous ambitions of working for the American CIA.

"How are you?" He asked, beaming childishly and feeling like all his work to act like a real mature adult had died on his way there.

Matthew frowned uneasily, running a hand along his face. "Fine... We've gotten a lot of snow. I'm sure it's on its way here. I'd've thought you would have moved down south by now."

Alfred flinched at the unspoken question. "Well, you know... this is probably as steady a job as I'll ever have."

Matthew sighed disapprovingly. "Alfred... You know I can't help you. I know why you called me down here, and I've told you before: _I don't want to be involved._"

Alfred scowled, wondering why all his greetings with old relations had to go this way, "I wasn't even going to say anything. God, you give me no credit. I just wanted to spend a bit of time before Christmas with my brother. Is that really so bad?..." he trailed for a moment, before muttering spitefully, "...since you would never invite me down to see your children. I wanted to come for Thanksgiving, you know. I've never even met them. And Carson's what? Five now? And Josh is two? Jesus, Matthew, I understand you don't want to be involved, but I might as well be invisible..." He rolled his eyes and headed for the doors. Matthew fell into step beside him, twisting his fingers together somewhat guiltily.

"Alfred..." he half-shouted as they stepped out into the ice wind and all the city's noise, "You know what I've had to tell them about you. My wife thinks you're homeless."

"And partially crazy," Alfred tacked on moodily. "She sent me a civil service announcement from a mental institution one year. That... was before you had Carson. How is he?"

"Fine," Matthew smirked in the way only a proud father could. "He likes baseball, you know. He can hit just like you. We might have to move down here to get him in a good enough league."

Alfred allowed himself a small smile, and fished a bit in his pocket before producing a dog-eared photo of two young boys sitting by a Christmas tree, Mattie and his drop dead gorgeous wife in the background. "I still don't know how you managed to land her," he whistled and Matthew punched him in the side. "Even if she does think I'm crazy, she's the crazy one for marrying you."

"Always cruel," said Matthew, shaking his head in partial agreement.

They boarded a bus and ended up, after some meandering, at Alfred's crumbling apartment. Truthfully, Alfred could have afforded a much nicer place, but he preferred to spend his money on gadgets instead. Matthew traced his finger along one of Alfred's extensive collection of laptops. This one was done up in shiny, embossed silver. By the looks of it, next year's model.

Alfred clambered around the kitchen, tripping over various cords and crap as he made them both coffee. His counters were littered with cameras and tablets and phones and whatnot. When he opened the cabinet to get the coffee, a plethora of chip bags and cookie packages crashed down on him, making Matthew grin. His brother hadn't changed at all.

As a kid, Alfred had always had a bit of a nerdy tech side to him. He loved pulling things apart and putting them back together. His room had always been filled with processors and keyboard parts and data chips. The dangerous things about Alfred's makeshift inventions were often that they worked better than the originals. Matthew remembered one particular instance in high school when Alfred had saved up and bought three separate laptops and then combined all the best features of each to make himself a new one. There had apparently been some infringement of copyright laws, and his parents had been forced to dish out a sizable sum of money to each company. After that, nearly every one of Alfred's crazy put-togethers was damned in that household.

If Matthew was being honest, he would bet that was why Alfred had ended up the way he did. There was never a sweeter boy on the block than Alfred Jones, but suddenly he wasn't allowed to do anything of the sort that he loved. Matthew was pretty sure that it wasn't the fact that Alfred couldn't do it that made him mad. It was the fact that he couldn't make something better. If there was a crappy laptop that Alfred Jones could somehow make better, it frustrated him beyond belief when someone stopped him from doing it.

Alfred was all-in-all a fix it man, and had over the years become something of an instant-gratification man as well. After he had moved out of their parents house, he had gotten into all sorts of stuff he shouldn't have with all the wrong people. Alfred's talents were highly useful in a crime situation, and Alfred, being gullible as a doorknob at eighteen, had soon figured out that this was the way he would make his money. He was an amazing hacker. Matthew felt sick thinking about it.

He knew his brother had stolen thousands maybe millions from bank accounts for sleazy minded men he met on the streets. Sometimes just for the hell of a challenge it presented. He was relatively certain that Alfred never stole anything for himself. Alfred would doggedly save up his pennies until he could head to the store and buy the iPhone six just like any other ordinary miser.

Alfred was an enigma to Matthew. His whole line of work made no sense to the way he actually lived his live. And truthfully, Matthew didn't want his kids meeting a man like that, no matter how good a heart Alfred may have had at one point in time.

"Geez, I hope it doesn't snow," Alfred muttered angrily as he held his hands against the coffee maker for warmth. "I swear NYC is the worst place to be in winter."

"It's negative 25 down where I am," Matthew reminded with a grin, eyes still tracing over his brother's toys.

"And that's why I've never taken it upon myself to show up un-invited. You would lock me out and I'd die of hypothermia walking back to the airport," Alfred rolled his eyes. There was always a slight jab to his tone. He really didn't understand why he couldn't be included in family gatherings anymore. Sometimes Matthew wondered if he would ever grow up.

"What's this?" he asked to change the subject, waving at several pictures of old airplanes tacked to a bulletin board on the wall. In retrospect, he should have known not to ask.

"Those?" Alfred smiled mischievously. "Why that's the 1909 Wright Military Flyer, my friend. Canard biplane with forty horsepower engine, 4 cylinders to drive two push propellers via sprocket and chain transmission system. Open frame fuselage. Landing gear with forward protruding landing skids. Natural wood finish, no sealant or paint of any kind. That there is the world's first military plane, purchased for thirty thousand dollars by the army and flown across a good portion of the US." He tapped the photo expertly, taking a sip from his steaming coffee mug and pressing the other into Matthew's hands.

"I didn't realize you were so into planes," murmured Matthew skeptically, eyes roving over the wood frame.

"I'm a man of many shades," Alfred coughed and scratched the back of his neck. "So... can you guess how much it's worth?"

Matthew's stomach twisted horribly. "Alfred, please don't tell me... Where is this plane?" He looked around quickly as if he expected it to somehow be behind Alfred's ripped up couch.

Alfred laughed. It was hard and off key and not the laugh Matthew remembered from when they used to be innocent. "You don't want to be involved, yet you always ask. That plane right there is on display at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum in DC."

"What do you want with it, Alfred?" Matthew ground out, feeling an unusual bout of nostalgia when he remembered how he confronted Alfred on stealing the neighbor's tricycle when they were four.

"Nothing." Alfred waved a hand mildly and turned to collapse back on his sofa. "I want nothing with it." His glasses were fogging up a bit from the coffee steam. Matthew couldn't read his expression.

"Alfred... just don't do anything stupid," Matthew begged, because it was the only thing he could say.

"Why does it matter? My life is one big stupid joke to you anyway, Matthew," Alfred said evenly, plopping a dollop of creamer in his cup. "It would actually be amusing if I got caught this time, wouldn't it? I've never tried prison bust before."

Matthew paled. "Alfred, you're an idiot."

"Probably," Alfred shrugged as if it didn't matter. "I'm having a hard time assembling a crew for this one. My employer's a priss and expects money to be able to buy everything. And I think I'm catching a cold in this damn weather." He sniffled pathetically and ran his sleeve across his nose. "Mattie, you're blocking the TV. Could you maybe... Thanks."

Matthew groaned, knowing he should really stop asking questions now. "So you're going to steal this thing?"

"In a perfect world, yes."

"And you need...?"

"Someone to sleep with my employer because he's been a real bitch lately. I have a suspicion that he acts the way he does because his ass-"

"I don't want to hear it, Alfred!" Matthew interrupted loudly, clapping his hands over his ears. "Dear god, do you take any of your jobs seriously?"

"That's what he said..." Alfred snickered before tacking on, "my employer that is."

"You know," Matthew spat in frustration fed up with innuendos, "I hope you die. It would honestly save me trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" He didn't notice the little smile now playing with Alfred's lips.

"The trouble of plotting your murder myself," Matthew muttered darkly.

"It's okay. I'll make sure to take myself out on this one. That would make..." He paused to count on his fingers. "At least five people happy."

"What people?"

"You, mom, dad, Artie, and that one Russian mafia guy I ticked off when I pants-ed him... It's funny because he never figured out that the whole reason I went there was to steal his gun. I'm pretty sure he still thinks I'm some super horny rapist." Alfred snickered, draining the rest of his coffee.

Matthew scowled. "Who's Artie? Your dog?" He was beginning to realize with resigned horror that he was becoming involved in this.

Alfred choked on the last sip of his coffee. "No, but I find that infinitely hilarious that you should mention that. You see, I've been working with him for at least three months and there's nothing he reminds me more of than a spoiled lap dog."

"I'm sure your ugly face reminds him of something much worse," Matthew muttered spitefully, but started to grin. "I feel sorry for the man desperate enough to employ you."

Alfred snorted, "Trust me. I make his boring life better. He's a right pain in the ass, and you'll see when you meet him."

"I'm not meeting him, Alfred. I'm not involved, remember?"

"Right. And you didn't just follow me back to my apartment, hear who my employer is, Arthur Kirkland in case you didn't get that. You didn't just hear all the mission details, location, problems, the whole gamut? Yep, you're definitely not involved."

"You did this on purpose. Playing the damn uncle pouting card."

Alfred smiled, "Maybe. Sometimes it's all I can do to get people to help me." He cocked his head to the side imploringly. "Well, what do you say? You've helped me before. Compared to last time, this'll be a piece of cake."

"How so?" Matthew asked, finding a map of the Smithsonian drawn strictly to precision and laid out across Alfred's dining table.

"I need you to do one thing. And one thing only."

"That's a lie." Matthew muttered, tracing his finger over the dusty blue pencil.

"Okay, fine. One thing for right now."

"And that is?"

Alfred opened his mouth and then closed it.

"What?" said Matthew suspiciously.

"You're not going to like it."

"You know, Alfred, I..." He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "_What? _What is it? I told Jenny I'd be back soon and if this is anything that's going to take a long time I-"

"No, no, no," Alfred waved him off standing. "I just... well, you have to take this test I designed first. It'll help me... judge your... err... usability?"

Matthew wasn't liking that tilted smile. "What, Alfred?"

Alfred held out both his hands. "Matthew, do you trust me?"

"No."

"Good to hear. We're already at an A plus for people skills."

"Alfred, I don't want to take your damn test. You know I'm capable enough for... whatever."

Alfred shook his head, "Ah, ah, ah, but this is different, Mattie. And the test is easy. Don't worry. I've designed a test for you, for Artie, and for anybody else that joins my team. It will help me with your skill set and... in its own way... help me see if I can trust you."

"You've designed a test for your employer?" Matthew said in disbelief.

"Yes..." Alfred frowned thoughtfully. "I was going to ask him to do it tonight... in a way."

"A way?"

"Well, he can't know I'm testing him, can he? Pfft, he'd never trust me."

"Dear god, Alfred! I don't trust you and you've told me about the test!"

"Yes, well, you're my brother. It's in your job description not to trust me. ... so will you take the test?" Alfred pulled an obnoxious puppy dog face.

"Yes, fine, alright. You're going to make me puke." Matthew shoved him, "What's the test?"

"Simple." Alfred tripped over the coffee table on his way to his room. Matthew heard him rummaging around, throwing things, broken glass. He was beginning to worry Alfred had died when there was silence for more than a minute, but finally Alfred emerged clutching a brown grocery sack.

"Don't question my methods." He said shortly as he began to pull out various junk food items and spread them across the dining table, shoving various wires onto the floor.

"Jiminy Christmas, what are these?"

"_Jiminy Christmas_, Matt? Really?"

"I have a five year old son, fuckhead."

"Fair enough," Alfred laughed lightly, "Now... which one?"

"What?" Matthew stared at him blankly.

"I said: Which one? Take your pick." Alfred gestured at the various packages of candy. Gummy worms, gummy bears, Sweet tarts, Jolly Ranchers, Milky Way, Taffy, Sour Patch, Hershey's, Mary Jane's, Dum-dum's, Smarties... It was basically a candy store, old and new, national and international. Matthew was surprised to even recognize some Canadian candy mixed in with the bunch. Mack Toffee, Wunderbar, Crunchie. There were Pocky with the original Japanese splashed across the front. Chinese Good Luck Guava candy peeped out behind a pack of old-fashioned American peppermint sticks.

"Uh... weren't we going to do a test?"

"Right-o. This is the test. Pick one." Alfred nodded towards his hoard, surprising Matthew when he didn't look the least bit drool-y.

"How exactly is this a test?"

"I'll explain after you've taken the test."

"And you're gunna do this to your employer?"

"Pick one, Matthew." Alfred smiled knowingly, "See, I've already deduced that you're indecisive. You don't trust me. And you're unsure if you'd like to stick with comforting and familiar or new and adventurous. Maybe that's why you and I have such a bumpy relationship," he nodded sagely and Matthew punched him in the shoulder.

"You are weird, Alfred." He snatched up a pack quickly and held it out. "Well, what am I now?"

"Nostalgic." Alfred murmured, making Matthew actually blush. "You know, we used to eat Twizzlers out on the front lawn for my birthday. Every year. Fourth of July tradition."

"Didn't even think about it," Matthew said honestly and started to give Alfred the candy back.

"Nope," Alfred held up his hands and backed off. "They're yours. Give some to Carson and Josh for me. Say Uncle Alfie sent 'em."

"That's all you wanted me to do?" Matthew asked.

"Ehh... for now." Alfred smiled. "We'll be in touch. Don't worry about paying for flights or whatever down here anymore. I'll tell Artie you've joined the A team."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled," Matthew rolled his eyes, reaching for his jacket and shrugging it on.

"Oh," A touch of softness worked its way into Alfred's eyes. "Between you and me, he's not that bad. I'd give him a two out of ten on a fun scale."

"Wow, a two. You're being generous." Matthew reached the door.

"To put it in perspective, I make my own fun," Alfred wagged his eyebrows and shoved Matthew outside. "See you later, brother. I reckon we'll be having a good ol' swashbuckling time right quick." And then he slammed the door.

And sighed heavily. Speaking of Arthur...

0 0 0

"You're late."

"Ain't I always?" Alfred sighed and tugged uncomfortably at his new tie, leaning against the door of Arthur's penthouse. He was raising his impressive eyebrows in quite the display of vicious tediousness, dressed rather opulently in a silk bathrobe and rabbit fur slippers. Alfred would have laughed. The first time he had asked Arthur if he were going to be putting curlers in his hair. The first time he had been surprised by how strong a right hook someone so tiny could have.

Alfred sighed again. "I have good news this time. I promise. If you'll let me in, I'll tell you."

"I feel as if you say that everyday."

"Well you should feel as if it's true today, cuz it is. Let me in, babe."

Arthur slammed the door in his face. At least this time, he'd had the presence of mind to keep his fingers away from the crack. Alfred groaned loudly.

He jumped through flaming hoops daily for this man. Daily. First, it had been the clothes. New ones all, just to get Arthur to speak to him without sneering. Then it had been the shampoo. His other one made Arthur feel like he was stuck in a 'barn shed full of animal shit'. Then it had been the accent. Which honestly, he was an American and he refused to talk like he had a close pin on his nose. (No offense really to any British people, Alfred was absolutely positive it was only Arthur who sounded like that.) And likewise the spelling. He couldn't write anything around Arthur without gaining himself a grammar lesson, and losing a bit of his sanity.

Now, finally, it was the nicknames. Which, admittedly, he had known from the start irritated Arthur, but he was determined to keep at least part of his annoying American-esque.

"Hey, Arthur... _Mr. Kirkland_, come on," He thudded on the door uselessly with his forehead. "Can't you tell when I don't mean any harm by now? I'm only trying to help you. Please don't send security to fetch me like last time. I really hate having to beat up fat innocent black men. I don't understand why we can't just be friends. I want to be friends. Don't you realize I'm in the business of making friends? I know I act way too badass for you to ever dream of being my friend, but I'm being honest here when I say that..." He pretended to sniffle dramatically. "That we really could be just that. I don't think I've ever connected with someone so intimately. The way you always trash my style, tell me I've looked like I just pissed myself, pick lint off my jacket when you think I'm not looking, enjoy the way I suck up to your sorry ass. The way I remind you of your mother and your dear old elderly grandmo-"

He smirked when the door swung open again. "So you _were_ listening to me?"

Arthur glowered grumpily. "You don't remind me of my bleeding mother, you imbecile! I'm never going to be able to get to sleep with your hideous noise. _What _do you want?"

"Alms for the poor," Alfred expected him to slam the door again and so stuck his foot in the crack to prevent it. "Don't mind if I do." He elbowed his way past Arthur humming to enter the dim light of his lavish apartment.

His laptop was set up on the counter surrounded by papers, a cup of tea perched on a tiny wooden cupholder.

"Ahhhhhh," Alfred placed a hand over his heart, "you didn't have to wait up for me, you little softie."

"Get out." Arthur snapped crossly. "We can talk to tomorrow. I'm going to bed."

"Oh, don't be such an angry elf," Alfred smiled gleefully at Arthur's deadpan expression. "It's only nine thirty."

"Mr. Jones, I am this, _this _close to canceling our deal." He held up two fingers pinched together.

Alfred sighed, knowing if he didn't put on at least an ounce of seriousness Arthur would certainly kick him out. "Alright, I get it. I wouldn't be so persistent if it wasn't important."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, but crossed his arms primly, letting the door close. "This will be quick."

"Certainly."

"Simple?"

"Yes, of course," Alfred nodded properly, feeling like he was playing a game of make believe king's court or something.

"Alright then, get on with it," Arthur grumbled, slipping back over to his stool at the island and beginning to mutter about how his tea was cold.

"Shall I make you another one?" Alfred asked mildly.

Arthur blinked. "_You _don't know how to make tea," he accused.

"I think you'd be surprised. How about I wow you with my special selection?" Rummaging a bit in his pockets, he couldn't say he wasn't a little bit pleased by Arthur's stunned look as he pulled out tea after tea from his jacket. He knew Arthur wouldn't go for candy though, at least not at first.

"Are they poisoned?" Arthur asked lightly, his skinny fingers tracing the shiny edge of a fancy tin.

"Naturally," Alfred grinned, leaning forward, and turning the jars to face him. "Ah... yes... this one most certainly is." He tapped the top of a particular tin.

Arthur leaned forward to squint a bit at the label. "My... that's from England."

"Sure thing. Take your pick." Alfred waited calmly.

"This one's worth nearly a hundred..."

"Yep."

"And this one's from China?"

"You called it."

"My god, where did you get all this tea, Alfred?" Arthur leaned back and fixed him with a genuinely curious expression. It was the first time he'd ever expressed so much interest in anything to do with Alfred at all.

"Well, obviously not all from here," Alfred joked, waving his hand over the spread. "What catches your eye? I thought you didn't want this to take long."

"I suppose I didn't..." Arthur trailed... "Well... this one's the most expensive. And... this one's the rarest. This one... I used to drink at home. And... I just found this one today in some shops. I've got a bit of this one in my cup there and I know that one tastes like cow piss..."

Alfred watched him in amusement, deciding he could be pretty domestic and down to earth when he was surrounded by things he liked. He wondered if it would be even better if Arthur was surrounded by old tomes. So much to talk about, to bore the air of, so little time.

"You know, this one sold very well at the turn of the nineteenth century because it was cheap and essentially part dirt back then. I imagine they've taken a lot of that out now." Arthur had picked up a tin and was squinting at the label. "Well, it would certainly be very historical if they kept it in. Oh! Did you know this one was shared by the queen and the prime minister recently, or so I heard. It's her favorite. I am glad she still keeps the old tradition, you know. So many have given it up."

"Uh-huh."

"Alfred! This one's worth quite a lot of money. It's an old root tea. I think it's near blood red when made properly." Arthur eagerly fingered one of the smaller tins.

"You want that one?"

"Oh heavens, no. I imagine it would taste like old fungus."

"Most teas do, in my opinion."

"Your opinion is worth less to me than shit, Alfred," Arthur patted his hand candidly, already scanning the next tin.

"Ouch. Gee." Alfred frowned, checking his watch. At this rate, Arthur wouldn't pick one till breakfast tea. And he had thought Mattie was indecisive.

"Well..." he stood after a moment, interrupting Arthur's prattling. "I think I'm going to head out now and let you sleep on this. It's obviously a very important decision." He started to scoop up some tins, but Arthur latched onto his wrists quickly.

"Now, now, don't be hasty," Arthur muttered, "I have it narrowed down to ten."

"Dear god," Alfred groaned. "It's not that hard. Yeesh, I just want to know what your first choice will be. If you let me back into your house again, I promise I'll let you try a new one everyday. And anyway, " he went on, his voice growing whiny, "You're richer than I am. Why can't you go buy yourself some tea, mmm? I'd like to know."

"I don't have time to waste, that's why," Arthur sniffed staunchly. "Fine, then. Make that one."

"This one?" Alfred stared. He didn't know much about tea, but he knew enough to know that was a strange choice.

"Yes, did I stutter?"

"Haha, Breakfast Club reference. That's rad, Arthur."

Arthur scowled, "Just make the damn tea."

"Careful," Alfred warned, scooping up the tin, "Or I might get mad and... throw it into the harbor! haha."

"Bloody hell, shut up."

"I'm going. I'm going." Alfred smiled softly with his back turned, "Do you mind me asking why this one? You can buy it for less than three bucks at Walgreens."

He sensed Arthur shift uncomfortably behind him. "I've been meaning to try it." He said stiffly.

"The great and mighty Arthur meaning to try a generic American tea? Has the world come to an end?"

"Perhaps." And he wondered if he was only imagining the smile there.

**So... yeah, I promise this thing will get up and rolling soon. We just have to assemble our A team ;p. I already have a myriad of adventures planned for our two main characters and a bit of fun stuff for Mattie and the poor others as well. Sorry for the random OCs. I just need Mattie to be married for this. I won't actually be writing them in probably, because I generally tend to detest OCs. **

**As for Alfred's tests, he's a bit of an eccentric, but brilliant butthole and we'll be learning quite a bit about him as I go on.**

**Breakfast club reference anybody? _Review anybody? _haha.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! Merry Christmas coming up in a couple days. Cheers for having all my shopping done!**

**Special thanks to my reviewers: hexa, Sandra DeNite, Sebbyfuzz, and Thisis. You all really make my day ;p**

**Also, thanks to anybody who followed and faved. It's great to know that you think this is worthwhile. Okay, so we're starting to assemble our crack team in this chapter. Slowly. hehheh. I'm working on it. I promise we'll get a lot more cool action thief action later. Thanks for checking it out. -doze**

"Soooo..." Alfred drew out, stressing his impatience. He wasn't sure he had ever been this impatient in his life before. He was impatient to get out of this suicide suit with its noose of a tie, its shackles of cufflinks, and its corset-like vest. He was already tapping a black omen into Arthur's mahogany floors with his loafers. He was impatient to go get Mattie at the airport because Arthur wouldn't approve of him until they'd met. He was impatient because any minute he'd be getting a mysterious but important call from an unknown number. And he was impatient because the little prude was ignoring him.

He was also a little bit annoyed. And he was annoyed because he had a suspicion that Arthur hadn't fulfilled his end of the deal.

Arthur had his newspaper up and his legs crossed, tea at hand. One of Alfred's teas, mind you. The T.V. was on in the background at Alfred's ever-so-taxing request with some boring History channel documentary. The fire crackled in the grate and the heater hummed beside it. There was condensation on the floor-to-ceiling windows, featuring a blurred, white and gray view of NYC. For all the little noises the penthouse emitted, Alfred's ears were ringing with the silence. He cleared his throat sharply.

"Arthur? Hello?" He tapped his fingernails gratingly against the counter, and finally losing his temper, reached forward and tore the newspaper out of his hands. "What are you? Five? You could at least listen to me when I'm talking to you."

Arthur fixed his impressive glare at the countertop, not meeting Alfred's gaze, "Now, look what you've done, blockhead. You've ripped it." He stood huffily and pretended to fix his tie, facing away.

Alfred wasn't having it. "Listen to me, _Arthur. _We aren't playing this game."

"I don't know what you're talking about. So long as you purchase me a new one while you're out, I won't mind." He sniffed again and started to walk towards the bedroom, fingers clenching around the edges of his suit jacket.

"Not the damn newspaper," Alfred stalked around to stand in front of him. "Did you do it?"

"Do what?" Arthur coughed, avoiding his eyes.

Alfred groaned. "I gave you one thing to do. _One_. God, you're such a... Sometimes I can't stand you."

"Well, I can't stand you," muttered Arthur defensively. "If I remember right, I'm the one paying for all of this. That means it's your job to fulfill any and all parts to whatever heinous schemes you come up with. It's not my-"

"Oh, but it is," Alfred hissed vindictively, shoving his finger in Arthur's face. "You told me yourself that you could do it. I specifically asked you. I told you it was important. You agreed you would have it done by today. Now, _where is he?_"

"I don't give a damn where he is." Arthur shoved Alfred's finger away, losing quite a bit of his usual clean-edged ferocious manner when he crossed his arms sulkily. "I don't care what he's doing. And I _definitely, definitely, _don't want him around here."

Alfred simply raised an eyebrow at his sudden mood. "Why?"

"Because he's a fucking bastard," Arthur muttered at the carpet, "Trust me on that."

"Maybe..." Alfred had to force himself not to smile. "but he's a smart fucking bastard... We need him."

Arthur groaned, turning towards him abruptly and grabbing him by the shoulders. The smaller man stood on his toes, green eyes glimmering with absolute solemnity. "_I'd rather you stabbed me with a bayonet." _

Alfred cocked his head. "I admit that is... a rather serious... admission coming from you."

"Yes," Arthur nodded rapidly, tightening his grip slightly. Alfred could see the glimmer of hope in his eyes, that perhaps he was being taken seriously. "Alfred, we don't need him. We really don't. You're... you're brilliant! And I'm rich! We don't need him. Not at all. By god, we really don't need him." He broke off shuddering.

"I'm brilliant, eh?" Alfred decided to push this for all it was worth. Apparently, this was a sore subject. "But you're always ragging on me, Mr. Kirkland. Sometimes it really kills my self-confidence. I might need his help to get my mojo back." He hung his head in mock dismay.

"Oh, don't." Arthur saw right through him and gave him a rough shove. "You are brilliant, Alfred Jones. And I swear on my life, I would give you anything if you found a way to leave him out of it."

"Anything?"

"Ah..." Arthur froze, realizing what a dangerous promise that could be.

"So if I find a way to leave Francis Bonnefoy out of it, you'll give me anything?"

"Well... anything meaning one single thing... in a reasonable sort of limited wa-"

"My, you are loose-tongued when you're desperate. I'll keep that in mind." Alfred's grin grew wider when Arthur's face tinged pink.

"Fuck it, Alfred," he snarled agitatedly. "What do you want?"

"Relax... I just have to... consider it." Alfred smirked, watching Arthur wring his fingers together nervously.

"Look... the most expensive thing I own is a painting from the Edo era and if you want it, I'd at least like to spend a bit of time with it before I-"

"Arthur," Alfred interrupted, "I don't want a chipping old painting."

"Fine... but if you want the Model T, I can send it to you maybe some time in July because the motor's being worked on and I would just need to say-"

"Arthur, I don't want the car."

"I'm not giving you one of my houses." Arthur muttered suspiciously.

"Why? What if I wanted one? I think that counts as anything?"

"No."

"I'd only be doing you some good. You have to admit you're a bit selfish. Who knows? Maybe I'd open up a non-profit in it?"

"_No._" Arthur snapped even more adamantly, quite resembling the little kid clutching up his toys and saying _mine. _

Alfred frowned. "Arthur, seriously. What can I take of yours that isn't worth millions? The toilet paper?" Truthfully, he already had something in mind. He knew what he was going to ask for. And he hoped it would ultimately do him some good for its shock value. He was more than a little curious for Arthur's reaction anyway.

"If you want it," Arthur growled scathingly. Alfred had inevitably managed to put him in a horrible mood yet again. Really, though. Arthur did it to himself.

"Fine," Alfred held out both his hands. "I know what I want."

"What?" Arthur swallowed anxiously, trying to look as if he didn't care.

"I don't want any of your stuff."

"...okay." Arthur frowned. "You don't want anything."

"I didn't say that. I said I don't want any of your stuff."

"Yes, and the anything offer only applies to my stuff. Therefore, you don't want anything of mine. Therefore, you don't want anything. Hold on... I'm taking this down in writing." He pulled a notepad from his pocket that made Alfred roll his eyes.

"No, Arthur. I don't want your stuff, _your actual possessions_. I didn't say I didn't want anything."

"What do you want then?" Arthur asked, his voice dripping in congealed sarcasm. "My love?"

"Honestly, I don't think you've quite mastered how to give that out yet. So I'll hold. No," Alfred shook his head and held up one finger, his blue eyes starting to smolder. "I want one night."

"One what?" Arthur stared at him blankly. Dear god, of all the people who claimed to be well-versed in culture...

"One _night_, Arthur. N-I-G-H-T. When the sun goes down and the moon comes up... when we all _go to b-b-b-e..._" Alfred raised both his eyebrows impatiently, but Arthur was still staring at him with a what-the-hell-are-

His expression went deadpan, eyes going comically wide.

Ah, there it was.

Alfred pretended to pick dirt from his fingernails, enjoying this way more than he should have. "One night, Arthur. And I promise you won't even hear me say Francis' name for the rest of my life."

"What... what the actual _hell, _Alfred?" Arthur spat, completely thrown. He backed away so fast that he nearly tripped over his own feet. "I'm not a... a... prostitute! Jesus Christ..." His hands jumping anxiously to fiddle with every article of clothing that he wore, his nervous habit.

"Alright then," Alfred nodded seriously, acting completely un-affected, though honestly quite amused. "I'll call Francis up and add him to the pay roll."

"Bloody hell, stop... wait for a minute, Alfred. Just... try and explain to me... why the fucking hell..." He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar, expression curdled into some kind of mix between scowl and gag.

"I'm sorry." Alfred offered simply. "I didn't realize sleeping with me would be so unappealing to you. I just figured since you didn't have a girlfriend... and you don't seem to be looking around... Well, we're both a bit busy, anyhow, why not?"

Arthur just stared. "Why?"

"I just explained why, Mr. Kirkland."

"God, don't call me that."

"I thought you wanted me to call you that."

"Not in that context. It makes me sound like your grandfather or something. Jesus, Alfred..."

Alfred smiled slightly, waving him off. "Never mind, Arthur. Don't stress it. I'll try to work Francis out of it. I don't _need _anything. Keep your love." He snorted, leaning against the counter. "You stress too much, babe."

Arthur just groaned, turning and placing his hot forehead against the china cabinet. "You _want _something though."

"Don't we all?" Alfred managed to keep his voice steady... barely. He hadn't expected Arthur to come back with that.

"Why?"Arthur had his eyes squeezed shut.

"Well, I feel it's the way the world works."

"No, imbecile. Why... me?"

"Why... you?" Alfred stuttered, deciding he'd already dug himself into quite a deep enough hole. This hadn't gone as planned at all. Arthur was supposed to get flustered. He was supposed to be cool and badass, wave it off, and then only bring it up in innuendos to make Arthur blush from time to time in the future. "If I say it's cuz you have a hot bod, are you going to smack me?"

"No, because you'd be lying... Maybe it'd be best if you left for now." He hadn't moved, eyes still closed.

Alfred scowled, but stood up, yanking his tie loose. "Geez, take a joke Arthur."

"So what? That was a joke?" Arthur fixed him with a blank stare, his carefully combed hair all in a flurry now, expression unreadable.

Alfred suddenly didn't know what to say. "Could have been."

"And if I said yes? You would have laughed. Very funny joke, mate. I'm cracking up." His lips pulled back to show his canines in a wide smile, but his nose was crinkled in some other emotion.

Alfred frowned, feeling prickly. And this wasn't his fault. "No... Arthur... God, why do you take things so seriously?"

Arthur closed his eyes. "Go away, Mr. Jones. We'll speak tomorrow."

Alfred exhaled sharply and was at the door, hand on the handle. Jesus Christ, when had an employer ever taken _Alfred Jones _seriously? Today was a day for the history books...

He exited out onto the city streets moodily. Blaming Arthur for being so goddamn finicky... but beginning to wonder at himself. He supposed he'd never actually bothered to questions _his own _motives before.

0 0 0

"That's mine."

"Okay..." Matthew moved his hand over a bit to snatch a bag of chips instead of cookies.

"That's mine, too."

"Right." Matthew frowned, reaching for a pack of candy.

"That's mine, Matthew. They're all mine. Get your own." Alfred frowned sourly at him from the couch, his cheeks bulging with all sorts of junk food smashed together into what he had long ago dubbed the 'Heart Attack Trail Mix.'

"I would have stayed at a hotel if it's such an inconvenience," Matthew muttered in annoyance, giving up on a midnight snack and sitting down on the floor. He didn't bother to ask Alfred to scoot over on the couch. Alfred was not in a sharing mood.

"Geez, Matthew, I just had the worst day, okay? Can't you let me binge in peace?"

"What?" Matthew asked, "Things not going to plan?"

"No, I mean, I got you and I'm pretty sure I got this other dude when he gives me a call. And I already had given Francis a call before Arthur went all mega bitch on me, but..." Alfred frowned, concentrating on pulling apart two iced animal crackers.

"Didn't you say Arthur had to be the one to talk to Francis?"

"Eh... yeah, it's only because they've been grade school rivals since they were five. Would have been an interesting social experiment. But Arthur didn't even keep his promise, so it doesn't matter anyway."

"Mmm... and I'm meeting him tomorrow?"

"Yep," Alfred lamented sourly, "He has to give you his asshole stick of approval."

"Alfred... are you okay?"

"Never better... except, if you don't mind, I'm going to let you fly solo when you meet Arthur, kay? I've got some things I need to do and-"

"I'm not going to meet him alone, Alfred," Matthew interrupted incredulously. "I don't care if you have a haircut scheduled for that time. You're coming."

Alfred snorted, "Haircuts are obviously more important than you, Mattie."

"You seriously have a haircut then?"

"No," Alfred rolled his eyes grinning, "... fine. I'll go. But you're doing the talking."  
"Alfred-"

"No, I'm serious, Matthew. If I talk, we will both regret it at this point. I've already been compromised... or compromising, if you prefer."

"I don't even know what you're talking about."

"And that's a damn good thing."

0 0 0

Alfred rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, grouchily, fixing his tie in front of the crooked mirror on his bedroom door. His cowlick seemed to have persuaded his fringe to stick up in much the same manner, and he wasn't in the mood to do anything about it, wishing he had some bacon grease or something to smear it down with. Matthew was humming in the shower. Alfred checked his watch through a yawn. It was much, much too early for a consultation. Damn Arthur and his crotchety old man ways. Who even woke up before seven these days anyway?

He sighed heavily and set about the kitchen making himself coffee. At this point, he was beginning to wonder whose brainiac idea it was to even try this. Oh right, his. He closed his eyes again, listening to the sound of traffic several flights below.

He had had many, many jobs in the past. Jobs that had lasted much longer and required much more stamina than this. But something about this particular one was giving him a migraine. He supposed it was because he was trying to play too many games with it. Alfred liked to play games. He was relatively unobservant when it came to real life, but when he was playing one of his games he could always be one step ahead, one maneuver away. So when he worked his jobs, that was how he liked to think. A bit detached, he could never detach himself completely. But still, it was a bit like play acting and it was more fun that way.

He heard the shower flip off and so drained the rest of his coffee, checking his cell.

-_Je suis ici.-_

Oh god. "Mattie! Hey, Mattie! Pick up the pace, man! We gotta go!" Alfred banged on the wall impatiently, slipping into his jacket.

Matthew came out with dripping hair in one of his work polo shirts. Short-sleeved. Stupid Canadians, immune to the cold.

"Come on," Alfred growled, pulling on a winter beanie in an attempt to flatten his unruly hair. "We really have to go."

"Alfred... what are you wearing?"

Alfred looked down quickly, worried he had accidentally spilled something on himself or forgotten to button the waistcoat or something. "A suit, Matthew, duh."

"You look like you're going to a wedding."

"I told you we had to dress formal, bro. God, he's gunna hate you now." Alfred sighed, "Let's go."

"Wait," Matthew spat anxiously, "Lend me one of yours then. I'm not going in there if you're all going to be dressed like that."

"It's too late now!" Alfred grabbed him by the hand and towed him out briskly. Matthew nagged at him the whole way for not informing him about how it was black tie formal not regular formal. And at this point, Alfred could really give less than a damn. Because he was already having that horrible sinking feeling that this was not going to go well.

He rung his way up to Arthur's penthouse, nearly snapping at the elevator man because he was being so slow. Matthew had fallen silent now and kept throwing him nervous looks. Alfred supposed he should try somehow to put him at ease, because he really wasn't going to be the main problem. But they arrived before he could open his mouth, and they stepped stealthily into the living room like they would rather no one knew they were there.

No such luck.

"Alfred." Arthur was standing right in the center of the living room waiting for them, dressed in his usual old and new suit concoction, but he was looking decidedly in the worst mood Alfred had ever seen him. And he didn't even have to look around him to know why. The whole penthouse smelled legendary and all sorts of perfectly made pastries were lining the bar counters.

A man stood in the kitchen with an easy smile that somehow seemed to ring flirtatious at the same time. His hair was pulled back loosely, glowing blonde by the warm lights, hanging around his cheeks. His button-down shirt was certainly buttoned down quite a bit, and a bit tighter than it needed to be around the shoulders. Alfred reckoned on purpose.

With Arthur standing right in front of him, glowering, it was easy to compare the two and decide that they were complete and total opposites. Arthur was short and thin as a wire. Francis, though not necessarily tall, had a certain stature about him that made him seem that way. He wasn't thin like Arthur, not fat, but stronger and thicker.

Arthur's appearance, refined as he could manage it to the utmost degree, couldn't really match that of the smooth, easy and without trying glow of the Frenchman. Francis' smile was wide and easily-given, Alfred already knew. Now that he actually thought about it though, he'd never seen Arthur smile like that. Sure, he'd seen him smile, harsh and scathing and in-control. Even possibly genuine once, though, he hadn't seen that as he'd been making tea at the time. But never open, never free, and never without its due payment.

"Ahhh, Alfred, it is so good to see you again." Francis frisked around the edge of the counter gracefully, to Arthur's extreme annoyance. He stiffened when Francis walked even a foot away from him.

"You bloody know him?" Arthur rounded on Francis furiously after he'd thought a second.

"Of course, I know _mon ami_, Alfred. He is quite famous for what he does, you know."

"I knew that," Arthur spat irritably, kneading his knuckles together. "I just didn't think you'd ever met him. Is that so stupid an assumption really?"

Francis' lips twitched, "Only coming from your mouth, lamb."

"Lamb?! Bloody hell, I didn't even want to let you in! Get out! Or I'll beat your-"

But they never got to hear what particularly Arthur was going to beat, because the oven timer interrupted them. Arthur ran his fingers through his hair in pure frustration as Francis flitted past him with a smirk.

"Alfred," Arthur growled swelling like a bullfrog, turning on his next target. Alfred gulped, holding out both of his hands in surrender to the angry little demon.

"Now, Arthur, don't act like an ass in front of Mattie, okay? He already thinks you're a tyrant from what I've told him. So let's play nice for awhile and then we can beat Alfred against the wall with a wine bottle, kay?"

Francis snorted from the kitchen, which made Arthur bristle all the more. He hadn't been kidding. Alfred's lips twitched. He really hated the guy.

"Damn it, Alfred," Arthur exhaled heavily and impatiently held out his hand to Matthew. "I'm Arthur Kirkland. I assume you know what you're supposed to be doing, because I sure as hell don't. I apologize for the state of my kitchen. I apologize for the partially naked man in my penthouse. And I apologize that I am not quite myself today." He rambled all of this off rather fast, before Matthew had even had the time to shake his hand back, leaving him wide-eyed.

"Now, Alfred," He turned to address the troublemaker. Matthew wondered if he was free to leave now. His brother always ended up with the weirdest sort of people.

Arthur cussed again when he saw that Francis had commandeered Alfred in the kitchen and went flying that direction. Matthew decided he could stay out of whatever sworn-enemies fight was about to happen and went to explore Arthur's cable channels.

"These are damn good, Francis," Alfred complimented easily, licking his lips. He hadn't had a proper breakfast, so right now it felt like he was eating heaven itself.

Francis smiled, "Ah, I'm glad you like it _mon ami." _He leaned over and ran his fingers down Alfred's arm provocatively. Alfred didn't even flinch, shoving another pastry into his mouth. He had met Francis before. And by now knew that Francis was a pervy man who couldn't stop touching anything that passed under his nose, but sometimes, when he could be bothered, he had a decent heart.

"Oh, you would come to my house just so you could stuff your face. You're here for business, imbecile. All of you are and if you don't get down to it, I will have you all thrown out." Arthur huffed angrily, sounding ridiculously out of breath and making Alfred worry that he would bust a blood vessel.

Francis smirked and Arthur seethed, crossing his arms furiously. Alfred could all but hear the timer running down. Any second now, Arthur would lose it. He was beginning to fear that this particular social game was a little too dangerous to play indoors.

"I see you've picked up something of Arthur's." Francis flicked one of the shiny buttons of Alfred's waistcoat, grinning. Alfred swallowed his mouthful and decided that simply nodding would be the best bet right now.

"Well, what would you have him in? Nothing?" Arthur snipped defensively.

"I think you'd be surprised by how nice that would look," Francis purred in a way that made Alfred want to gag.

"Since when are you both fashion geniuses?" He muttered, shoving another pastry in his mouth and eyeing them both balefully. If he had his way, he'd still be in his jeans and his t-shirts.

"Since you always show up like a no-wit slob," Arthur said at the same time that Francis said, "What are you talking about? Arthur wouldn't know fashion if it bit him in the ass."

"Oh, you have no idea how much pleasure I would derive from wringing your neck right now," Arthur said through a horrendously dangerous grin.

"On the contrary, I would say the feeling's mutual." Francis smiled back. Alfred gulped.

"Hey, come on, guys. We're all here for the same reason. Arthur's gunna get what he wants and we're gunna get paid inordinate amounts of cash. There's no need to fight, yeah? Hahaha," Alfred chuckled nervously.

"I am not working for Eyebrows unless he tells me personally that he needs my help," Francis said tactfully. Alfred already knew that that wouldn't be happening in a million years.

"I'm not paying the bloody French frog unless he... Hell, I'm not paying the bloody French frog!" Arthur scowled furiously and stalked away. "Stop demolishing my kitchen by the way."

"I think you do enough of that on your own," muttered Francis under his breath. Alfred sighed.

"You guys need to like take a chill pill or something. Arthur's usually an uppity beast, but I swear you make him at least ten thousand times worse."

Francis smiled, "Arthur and I have known each other for a very long time. I don't think with one evening you will be solving all of our problems, Alfred."

Alfred frowned, licking his fingers, "Well, you could at least try being more cordial. I don't know why you try so hard to piss him off." He looked up imploringly with raised eyebrows. "I mean, to me at least, it looks like you're instigating."

Francis laughed dryly, throwing a smatter of flour across the counter. "Alfred, you are cute. Do you mind me asking how much time you've been spending with _mon petit, _Arthur?" He paused to look up.

Alfred blinked, nonplussed. "I dunno. Why's that important? Three months maybe? It's not like I've been living at his house, though, so don't get any wrong impressions." He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Of course not," Francis smiled widely. "You're playing a game. Like always."

"Yeah," Alfred nodded, scratching the back of his neck stiffly, "Like always."

"Mmm... Well, Alfred, if you open your eyes a bit I think you'll find I'm not talking any different to Arthur than I am to you." Alfred snorted in disbelief at that, but Francis kept going. "My face pisses him off. It would do for you to figure out why. Because I assure you, Alfred, it isn't like I haven't tried." He turned away sharply to roll out more dough, leaving Alfred staring at Arthur's back.

Dressed elegantly in dry-cleaned pinstripe, he was looking out the window haughtily, arms crossed tightly across his chest, chin tilted up, loafers shiny in the grayish light. Alfred hesitated, before shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and sauntering over. He was pretty sure he really wasn't the best person to be talking to Arthur at the moment, but since he hadn't much choice...

"Hey, Arthur, I'm sorry," he started softly so Francis wouldn't hear him, leaning against the window. "I didn't mean to send Francis over here like that."

"I thought you said you would try and work him out of it, or was I mistaken?" Arthur wasn't looking at him, gaze glued icily to the distance.

Alfred flinched. "I kinda need him, Arthur. I don't know where I'd find another guy like him. He's... good at what he does."

"And what's that?"

Alfred swallowed and offered weakly, "I think you know."

Arthur's nose crinkled and he fixed Alfred with an unfeeling glare. "You really need someone to do that?"

"Well, it's a good... distraction?" He smiled and then wilted under Arthur's even more un-amused expression. "I'm sorry, Arthur," he murmured again, finding it odd how much the tenseness of the situation was getting to him. Looking for a way out, he fished in his pocket. "How... how about I make you some tea?"

Arthur's eyes scanned the cluster of tins in Alfred's hands. "I don't want any of those." He sighed overdramatically.

"Then..." Alfred, not to be deterred, dropped the tins carelessly on the floor and went fishing for more. "These?"

"Nope," Arthur sniffed, but leaned imperceptibly forward for more options.

"How about this one? The one with dirt in it?"

"You think I want tea with dirt in it?"

Alfred's lips twitched, "It's historical dirt, Arthur. This could be the dirt used in your grave one day."

Arthur pulled a disgusted expression. "Alfred, that is the most nasty, ungentlemanly-"

"Alright, I'll make this one." Alfred interrupted, holding a ruby red tin imported straight from across the pond with a soft grin. "It's raining outside. We've got the fire going. It'll remind you of home. Hell knows, something's gotta make you relax." He reached up playfully, but gently to smooth Arthur's wild hair a bit. It looked like this morning he hadn't been the only one without time to tame his hair.

Arthur's harsh expression dropped to one of mild surprise, and then he looked away, frowning.

Alfred grinned, priding himself for guessing right. "Why don'tcha sit with Mattie for awhile and I'll deal with... what did you call him? The frog?" Alfred gave Arthur a light push on the shoulder. "Man, why does he get a cool insult like that? I just get: you imbecile. Honestly, am I not annoying enough for you? I can turn it up a couple of notches if it results in a cool nickname, babe. You know this is only the mildly annoying level it goes all the way up to mega-annoying-asshole." He kept teasing till Arthur had to put in a fair bit of effort to keep from grinning. So the little hairy-eyed demon did have a sense of humor, he had been beginning to wonder.

He started to turn towards the kitchen when Arthur gave him a brisk, but awkward shove back. "Consider it a compliment," he muttered quickly, stumbling over his words, face going a bit red, "I can actually semi- put up with you."

Alfred grinned, knowing he was forgiven for his earlier sins and officially cleared for more mayhem. "Alright, Arthur, I'll let Francis be the annoying one... for awhile."


	4. Chapter 4

**Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, guys!**

**Thanks so much to my wonderful reviewers: Sandra DeNite, Redwhale6 and Guest. **

**To answer your question Redwhale6, yes we most definitely will be seeing a certain albino and shippyness in so many directions will ensue. I hope you like that ;o haha.**

**A majority of the countries will be in this story and I suppose I should have put something in the description about multiple ships... because I... uh.. have some plans ;p Hopefully, that's all good for you. UsUk will of course be the main ship as that is what the story's about. I haven't decided whether this fic will be venturing into the land of Rated M yet, so we'll see. Anyway, enjoy the chapter! -doze**

Carefully. Carefully. Carefully. Yes... just like-

"Feliciano, what the hell are you doing?!"

"Ahhhh, brother," Feliciano threw up his arms with a half frown, as all the remains of his card house fluttered down around him. "I was working on that."

Lovino made it a point to give him a disgusted eyebrow raise. He wouldn't admit it, but Feliciano was sure that he practiced it in front of mirrors to get that good. "I don't give a damn. You should just be happy I warned you. Ludwig is coming up and if he finds you playing with Barbies and cards one more time, you know what'll happen."

Feliciano offered him a half-hearted shrug. "Ludwig wouldn't be mad. He played with me last time. I swear it, brother."

"There's no fucking way he played dollies with you. Maybe you played with that fucking crazy albino, but Ludwig..." Lovino's nose crinkled in disgust and he pulled irritably at his uniform collar, drawing Feliciano's attention to the rather sizable stain across the middle.

"Did you spill pasta on yourself, brother?" Feliciano smiled easily. "I have a Tide stain-remover stick in my pocket."

"T-this... t-this isn't pasta sauce, bastard. It's blood! I work in the force!" Lovino insisted, cheeks going red. He tugged at the edges of his security uniform importantly, and Feliciano frowned.

"But brother, I work with you. I've never seen anybody bleeding, except people that paper cut themselves on the museum maps. And we always get them band-aids. Are you sure it's not pasta sauce?"

"It's not pasta sauce, bastard!"

"Are you sure it's not pasta sauce?" Feliciano cocked his head.

"It's not pasta sauce, you fucking idiot!"

"Really?... I think it's pasta sauce." He stood decisively, humming as he cornered his brother against one of the TVs in the surveillance room. "Hold still, Lovi." He put his hand against Lovino's chest at which Lovino promptly began punching him. They ended up on the floor, but Feliciano was not to be deterred from getting out a pasta stain. He was something of a samurai in this art. Any other violent instance and he would have run, but this was Lovi with a stain issue. Hardly anything to be afraid of.

"Stop it! Get off of me! Mrph! G-get... your hand out of my mouth!" Lovino shoved angrily, while Feliciano expertly rubbed the tiny stain remover in counter-clockwise circles against his brother's stomach.

"You're an idiot, Feliciano! You're such an annoying fu- L-Ludwig," Lovino broke off suddenly, eyes going impossibly wide. Feliciano looked up.

"Hello Ludwig," he beamed, blowing a strand of hair out of his face, "I was just cleaning Lovino's dirty uniform. Is it almost lunch break for us, too?"

Ludwig blinked in the doorway, dressed in a dirt brown museum security guard's uniform like the other two. His hair was slicked back to a strict degree, hand resting naturally against the holster of a small shooter. He didn't seem particularly surprised to find the two in this position, only nodded roughly to Feliciano's question.

"Yes. It is lunch break. Come with me and punch out." He spoke directly, voice rumbling in his thick chest with a strong German accent. It was like you could hear the earth quaking every time he spoke. Lovino swallowed, watching in positive incredulity as his brother leaped happily to his feet, prancing to Ludwig's side. It was an everyday occurrence by now, but he still could not understand how scared-of-butterflies Feliciano could be so un-intimidated by the bulky, stoic head of security.

"Can we go to the Italian _restaurante_, mmm?" Feliciano smiled prettily as he skipped beside Ludwig in the hallway. "You can get sausage in your pasta like always, yeah? And I can try something new like Portofino."

"Yes." Ludwig answered simply, not meeting the other's gaze. His boots met the tile floors with heavy thuds. They were somewhere in the maze of back hallways of the National Air and Space Museum. His keys clinked a steady rhythm against his leg while Feliciano chattered at almost the same pace.

The whole museum had a rhythm in Ludwig's mind. And that was how he liked to keep things running. It began as soon as they clocked in and followed them throughout the day with the steady roar of people or the shrill shrieks of children. Sometimes the yelling of security guards. There was always a rhythm to march to until he could head home and loosen the tightly drawn belt, the pristinely tucked shirt, and grab a beer. That was Ludwig's solace at the end of the madness.

Well, there was lunch, too. He threw a quick sideways glance at the happy Italian, chattering on. Feliciano wasn't much by means of security guard. In fact, he was the one they sent to fold the brochures and clean the windows. They couldn't trust him at the ticket punching because he would talk to the customers until they got frustrated and left. They couldn't trust him to watch the actual exhibits because he'd been known to take random siestas. They couldn't trust him to check bags because he would always get distracted by the various personal items within them.

He was annoying for the most part, but it was hard to hate him. Ludwig preferred not to speak in most situations, unless he needed to, to gain control or shut dickheads up. Words wasted were ones that could never be taken back. He was still questioning himself on why he didn't mind Feliciano's company so much.

"What do you think, Ludwig?" Feliciano prompted with wide chocolate brown eyes as he held out the exit door into the cold, blustery December.

"Hmm?" Ludwig asked, feeling vaguely guilty for not listening.

"About flying of course!" Feliciano prattled on easily. "The sky's so gray here. I bet if we could just fly up a bit we could see the sun, yeah?"

"Yes." Ludwig frowned, forming the words carefully in his head. "You don't like December, Feliciano?"

"No, brrr..." Feliciano shivered, giving himself a hug. "The sun is a good friend of mine. I'd rather not lose her like this." He laughed, cocking his head back and his reddish brown hair flew in the wind, spreading his fingertips out like he would try and catch it.

"But what about the snow?" Ludwig asked mildly, dodging a low lying tree branch.

Feliciano's nose wrinkled, "Well, I think it's all nice and pretty, but when you step in it, it melts! Then it gets black and dirty in the city." He sighed, "It is sad. Don't you think so, Ludwig? If the snow could stay white and the cars could stay away, I think snow in the city would be absolutely _bella._"

"Schön," Ludwig agreed, making Feliciano beam.

They reached the small Italian restaurant and took their usual seats by the window. Feliciano had moved back to the subject of flying which seemed to be something of a trope of his recently if Ludwig had anything to say about it.

"Wouldn't it be quite amazing if people could fly, Ludwig?" Feliciano gave the waiter both their orders in hurried Italian, before turning eagerly back for his answer.

Ludwig hesitated. "I don't think it would be so amazing if everyone could. It would probably be quite normal."

"Oh... yeah..." Feliciano nodded eagerly. "You are brilliant, _amico mio_. But... what if only you and I could fly?"

"I... I suppose we wouldn't need planes," Ludwig offered, feeling dull-witted. He never knew what to say to Feliciano's otherworldly remarks.

"No, we wouldn't. We could fly up and paint paintings of the sky up close. They would be so beautiful. We could quit our jobs and be rich, yeah, selling our paintings?" He cast his chocolate eyes down, tracing the grains of the wood table like he was already imagining the pictures he would paint.

Ludwig watched him silently. The security force for the Smithsonian was something of a mishmash of odd stories and even odder people. He liked his job, generally. It wasn't very exciting and the night shifts were dull and full of odd shadows, but it was something he was good at. He had a penchant for order and liked to see high-quality enforcement. He was the one who would nod 'good job' at the policemen, rather than sympathy at the caught criminal. He knew someone like Feliciano shouldn't be working there, though.

From what he'd known of him, he was an artist. He dreamed and he painted, and he'd moved to America in the hopes of doing just that. Unfortunately, the land of opportunity was always a vague net cast in the waters. Some people brought it in full and some people brought it in empty.

Ludwig, himself, had lived in Germany until he was in middle school, raised mainly by his erratic, but all-in brother, Gilbert. If he got to thinking of it now, he would start smiling. He tried so hard to get away from Gilbert, to not be anything like him. The latter hadn't been so hard. He and Gilbert were on different ends of the spectrum, but the former... In Feliciano's words, "Destiny had put them together with her own super glue."

"Ludwig?" Feliciano prompted after a minute. He could never stay silent for long.

"Yes?"

"If you could... if you had so much money you could get anything you wanted... what would you get?"

Ludwig's brow furrowed. These were just the sort of speculative nonsense questions that he tried to weed out of his own thoughts. They never brought about anything but wishful dreams and jealousy over people who had. "I don't know, Feliciano. And I don't think it's important."

"Yeah, me too. I was talking to Kiku and he told me the best things in life are free. That's so original of him, isn't it?" Feliciano nodded in slight awe of their Japanese friend.

Ludwig wondered if he was joking. "Yes... err... original."

"Do you think they're going to get married, Ludwig?" Feliciano asked dreamily and Ludwig suddenly wished he was elsewhere.

He coughed uncomfortably. "I'm sure they'll figure it out themselves. It doesn't matter what I think."

"Yao's always talking about him, yeah? That's what you do before you get married, right?" Feliciano twisted his fingers together, eyes sparkling with fantasies. "I want to get married, Ludwig! Someday."

Ludwig took a large gulp of his water, swiping a hand under his hot collar. "That's good. You're good at getting girls, Feliciano."

"Oh yes, girls are nice," Feliciano nodded, "But I think I'd want to marry a boy if I had the choice. Do you want to get married, Ludwig?"

Ludwig felt this question was a little too deep for him at the moment, so he merely shrugged, hoping Feliciano would drop it.

"It'd be like flying, wouldn't it?"

Ludwig's blue eyes shot up incredulously.

Feliciano was drawing on a napkin. Two figures, side by side, fingers laced. A small smile was pulling at his lips. "It would, yeah, Ludwig? Impossible in the past... impossible now... but maybe..." He traced a finger across the heads of his drawing. "Maybe in the future."

0 0 0

"Alright! Restaurants, restaurants, restaurants," Alfred hummed happily as he began dumping brochures all over Arthur's dining table. Matthew wandered up behind him wiping sleep from his eyes, and Francis was looking unusually pleased about something at Alfred's side. After the initial chaos of Francis' arrival, things had cooled down a bit, fortunately. Alfred was worried he'd have to bring in a SWAT team if things kept up like that.

Francis had settled in with Matthew after exhausting Arthur's flour supply. They'd both been enchanted to find the other could speak French, and had been talking in it all afternoon.

Alfred felt he would be sick if he heard one more slurred expression and lilting laugh. He had a horrible feeling they were making fun of him, which wasn't that unexpected in reality, but unpleasant nonetheless. Arthur had the right idea in his opinion. After he'd taken his tea, he'd disappeared in the bedroom. When he didn't come out for some time, Alfred became curious over what he was doing in there and had snuck off to take a peek.

He found him sprawled on the made-up bed, fast asleep with his mouth partially open. Nice suit and all. Alfred's first thought had been about how damn wonderful it would feel to join him, which then, of course, he had quickly brushed off as bizarre and due to an overdose of French pastries.

Now, he had spread menus all across the dining table and turned to Francis expectantly. "They're all French." He explained, waving at the mass of colored titles. "Since you're the expert, I thought you could pick our dining experience for the night."

Francis raised a thin eyebrow. "Ah, but what sort of French restaurants must you have in New York City? Dirty, dingy tramps of places, in my opinion."

Alfred smirked, "I think, if you'll look, you'd be surprised. This is a... very multi-cultural city, my city." He had done an extensive amount of research for this and he was pretty sure he'd secured brochures from both the best and worst French restaurants in NYC. In the back of his mind, he was already cringing at the fuck-ton of money he'd be shelling out for everybody later.

Francis smiled slightly, tracing his thin fingers across the swirly French lettering, reading. "_Oui_, I would say you have. Real French cuisine from authentic French chefs. I am impressed."

Matthew was squinting at the labels too, looking mildly sick with some of the weird options listed under them. He may have known French, but he was hardly a connoisseur of taste, apparently. Alfred was just crossing his fingers that Francis would pick somewhere with English menus as well.

"Why do you want to go out, Alfred?" Francis asked mildly, flicking several brochures away from him in disgust.

"Well, I was thinking we could discuss our further plans over dinner," Alfred said seriously. He supposed he'd been being a bit vague. He could at least give everyone an outline of what was expected of them.

"Ah," Francis nodded. "So Arthur won't be joining us?" He was looking uninterested to hear the answer, but Alfred frowned.

"Well, of course, he will. He's my... _He's_ _our _employer. He has to know what's going on."

"Yes, good, wonderful, splendid." Francis slapped a brochure into his palm with finality, grinning widely. Alfred wondered why he was so elated all of a sudden.

"You don't mind Arthur coming, do you?" Alfred asked uneasily, feeling even more out of his depth when Francis and Matthew shared a knowing look.

"Oh, I don't mind, _mon ami." _Francis waved carelessly, but his lips were twisting in amusement. "I just rather imagine _you _will mind after awhile."

Alfred blinked, "Me? I've put up with him longer than you have so far."

"Yes, but Alfred," Matthew fixed him with an earnest look like he was trying to communicate something. "We're going to a French restaurant."

Alfred rolled his eyes impatiently. "Yeah, yeah, I know Arthur has it out for French people. But he didn't come eat lunch with us, so he'll be hungry. I doubt that he'll complain mu-"

Francis laughed sharply, eyes sparkling with wicked amusement.

Alfred scowled, "Ok, so he'll complain a bunch. Why is that so hilarious? I'm pretty sure that's already in Arthur's character description anyway."

"A-Alfred," Matthew butted in softly, "Maybe we should just go while Arthur's asleep. You can pick him up something if you really want to, but it's a really bad idea to-"

"Do what while I'm asleep?"

All three of them jumped.

"Geez, Arthur," Alfred spoke first, rubbing a hand across his chest. "You scared the crap out of me."

Arthur rolled his eyes, "You get scared too easily, Alfred. I'll fill you out an evaluation form after this whole experience is over. That will go under your flaws." He yawned, running a hand through his wild hair. Alfred stared at him.

This was strange. He'd been working for Arthur Kirkland for going on three months now. He hadn't necessarily seen him every day or talked to him every week. But... There were a number of things wrong with this picture. Not the least being that Arthur wasn't wearing his suit jacket or vest. Just his partially untucked button-down and loosely hanging tie. He was in socks too, which was really just... strange. Alfred closed his eyes. Wondering what the hell was wrong with himself.

"What are you all looking at?" Arthur asked, when they just continued to stare at him.

"Uh... you." Alfred almost said, _almost said, _before he realized Arthur was referring to the colored cacophony of French menus. "Oh, these are menus," he began quickly, trying to make up for his awkwardness. "We were deciding where to go for dinner." He conveniently left out the part that they were all French and Francis was choosing.

"Oh really?" Arthur came to stand beside him, pulling absentmindedly at his wrinkled tie. "Where to then?"

"Uhh..." Alfred reluctantly held up the brochure Francis had given him.

Arthur blinked at it for a second, before his expression fell abruptly to a disgusted scowl. "Of all the places?" he spat each word with a vengeance like they'd all done him some great personal wrong. Any good temper he may have had before was long gone. Alfred backed up when he realized the question and all its malice was directed at _him_, not Francis. What the hell?

"Francis chose it," he waved his hands quickly, trying to turn Arthur off of him.

"Yes, but Alfred suggested it," Francis put in genially, "My very good friend, Alfred, here to make me at home in a faraway country." Matthew gave Francis an aghast look, but the damage was already done.

"Y-you c-can stay home, if you want, Arthur," Alfred sputtered hurriedly. "We didn't even think you'd want to come. You don't like coming out with me, anyway. So I figured that you'd just, you know, want to, you know, stay home." Matthew flinched because Alfred had no idea that he was just digging himself a deeper hole.

Arthur frowned furiously, dropping his green eyes to the floor. He seemed to be debating on what to do. Abruptly, he pushed past Alfred, going back to the bedroom. "Ring the front desk and tell them to send my car around. I'm going, imbecile!"

Alfred gulped, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Francis was smiling, humming even. And Matthew was once again lamenting how Alfred always came by the craziest people.

Soon, all three of them were standing out on the sidewalk. Matthew could feel Alfred absolutely radiating anxiety beside him. He was craning his neck at the lobby doors, looking for Arthur. He'd tried to warn Alfred that this was a very bad idea. From what he'd seen today and Francis' ever-enduring smirk, there couldn't possibly be a worse thing Alfred could have suggested they do. Well, a foursome could have been worse, but at least they wouldn't have been doing it at a French restaurant.

Alfred really had no idea the social impasse he had just made. He perked when Arthur came out, dressed opulently per usual. But Matthew was praying that he would wipe that hopeful expression off his face before Arthur wiped it off for him.

"What are you all doing standing out here?" Arthur cast a disparaging eye down the length of them. Matthew marveled at how downright dreadful he could be when he tried.

"Waiting for you," Alfred frowned. "Arthur, I-"

"I'm not taking _you _there," Arthur spat. "Get your own ride." He slipped elegantly into the back of his own sedan and slammed the door, leaving Alfred staring, open-mouthed.

"Arthur, come on!" Alfred stepped forward earnestly to knock on the window. Francis was just standing in the background, amused spectator.

"Alfred..." Matthew began warningly, but he was too late.

Alfred leaped back with a loud "Shit!" as the car shot forward over his left foot with a loud _crack_. He clutched it in shock, gasping, his trouser leg, caught under the tire, had ripped all the way up his calf. For a second, utter silence. His eyes narrowed then, dangerously. Francis drew a sharp breath, and Matthew suddenly wished he was anywhere else.

Alfred wrenched off his shoe and chucked it with all his might at the blackened windows of the car, hitting it square on the back windshield. "You little fuck!" He yelled, "You broke my damn foot! God!" He shouted in pure frustration as they watched the taillights disappear unfeelingly around the next block. "I hate him!"

Francis seemed infinitely amused by this as Alfred began to limp determinedly down the sidewalk.

"Alfred," Matthew called in distress, "Where are you going? We need to get that looked at."

"I'm getting us a cab. We're going to the damn French restaurant," Alfred growled under his breath. "I swear, oh god, I swear if he wants to play hard ball, I'll throw it right back."

Matthew swallowed, but Francis laughed, falling into step beside Alfred. "I did tell you _mon ami. _Arthur can be very volatile when he does not get his way."

0 0 0

Alfred had reclaimed his shoe, though not put it back on. His foot was swelling horribly inside his sock, but he absolutely refused to go get it looked at until they'd eaten. They were waiting in the front area of the restaurant for Arthur. Matthew had half a mind to think that he wouldn't show, but Alfred seemed to believe with absolute certainty that he would. Francis was chatting smoothly with one of the waitresses in French, telling (and laughing) about their odd party, warning her to keep away the breakables.

The doors frisked open suddenly, and Matthew was caught helplessly between Alfred and Arthur's stare-down. He flitted anxiously over to stand by Francis, unsure if he liked or detested it when Francis slung an arm across his shoulders.

"Hello, Arthur," Alfred greeted cordially, but it was so forced a dog would have been able to pick up on its insincerity.

Arthur simply raised an eyebrow at him, not looking apologetic in the least. "Did you get us a table, Francis?"

Matthew swallowed heavily. If Arthur would rather address Francis than Alfred, they really did have a problem.

"Yes, right this way, _mon petit_," Francis smiled cheerfully, pulling Matthew along with him. Alfred heaved a long suffering sigh when Arthur cut him off, forcing him to walk at the back.

They settled at a table in the very center of the restaurant, making Matthew's stomach turn uneasily. The last thing they needed was for everybody to be watching them. Surprisingly, Alfred picked up a menu, ordered and set it down without much ado.

His harsh expression that had hardened and hardened and hardened on the way over here seemed to have suddenly sprung a leak. Because it was melting now, to more of a blank frown. Matthew had no idea why. If someone had run over Alfred's foot when he was eighteen, he wouldn't have rested until he'd satisfactorily beaten their face in. Now, he was twenty-one, and Matthew was finding that behind the same old mask was someone very different.

"What did you order, guys?" Alfred asked after a minute, smiling slightly. "Cuz I haven't got a hell of a clue."

"No French, Alfred?" Francis sighed disapprovingly. "Let me see your menu." He scanned it and promptly told Alfred he'd ordered escargot. Alfred sighed, because it was just his luck that the one thing he picked off of thousands of French items would be the dreaded, but classic snails.

"Can you order me a salad, Francis?" He put in with a weak smile.

Francis rolled his eyes but took pity on him and waved the waitress over again.

"You eat salad, Alfred?" Arthur muttered disbelievingly, scratching the edge of the table with his fingernail. Matthew could tell he didn't know how to react to Alfred's lack of angry things to say.

"Yea, sometimes. I'm not a carnivore, babe," He leaned back in his chair, awkwardly stretching his long arms behind his head. "What did you order?"

Arthur sniffed, glancing at the menu in pure disgust. "I honestly have no idea."

Alfred's lips twitched and he leaned forward. "Want me to try and guess? I think I took a Rosetta Stone French class in fifth grade once."

Arthur rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "I don't even want to be here."

"You didn't have to come." Alfred pointed out.

Arthur's green eyes flicked up at him venomously. "Oh, that's nice. I could just leave you all in cohorts to plan whatever you damn want to at my expense. I'd be brain dead if I didn't come, Alfred."

Alfred didn't seem very convinced by this response, but he nodded mildly. "You look nice," he said after a minute when Matthew and Francis had gone back to talking in French and his nasty bout of snails had come. He wondered what the hell had gotten into to him to say that, but then figured it was his last hope at putting Arthur in a less I'm-going-to-run-over-you-with-my-car mood. So he didn't take it back.

Arthur scowled. "Stop. That's not going to work."

Of course it wasn't, Alfred could have rolled his eyes. "You're blushing."

"I'm not!"

"You are." Alfred raised his eyebrows, shooting a furtive look at the other two. They were arguing about something, totally distracted.

"I'm not! Goddamn it, I'm not," Arthur spat, throwing his napkin down crisply.

"No, maybe not." Alfred allowed suddenly, "But you are listening. So keep listening for a moment, would you? I've got something to say."

Arthur's eyes ran over him warily and he bit the inside of his cheek. "What?"

Alfred smirked, standing abruptly. "If it bugs you so much that I favor Francis, I'll let you pick the restaurant next time, fucker, and then _I'll_ run _your_ foot over with my motorcycle."

Arthur blanched, before he stood too. "Y-you deserved it," he spat. "I'm not apologizing."

"Did it look like I was asking for an apology?" Alfred's blue eyes flashed dangerously. "Listen to me, Arthur. And listen to me good. I am not dealing with whatever shit you're pulling right now. You hired me to help you. If I want to damn go out and treat my friends to French cuisine, you don't have to tag along! Alright? I didn't choose the restaurant for you, and in fact it would have been a fat lot better if you hadn't even come. You're selfish and ridiculous and it's not my job to baby you! I'll get you what you pay for in the way I want to do it, anything else is off charts!... And I'll be sending you my medical bill."

He sat down suddenly, turning to his salad. Matthew's mouth was open in shock and even Francis was looking at Alfred like he was some kind of foreign creature. Arthur stood for a moment, looking just as stunned as the other two, before he abruptly turned on his heel and was at the door. Alfred didn't even glance up.

"Alfred... what the hell?" Matthew whispered in disbelief. "Why... why the hell did you do that?"

"If he wants to fire me, he can fire me. He deserved that." Alfred said shortly. "I'm not here to be his friend. I'm tired of having to treat him like he's made of glass. I tried to be nice and I tried to like him. But honestly, he is the stuffiest, most ridiculous-"

"Alfred!" Francis interrupted, making Alfred scowl.

"Don't try to scold me. You instigated, and you have to admit it. I'm not taking all the blame." Alfred threw a piece of lettuce in his mouth, frowning harder when Francis waved a hand in his face sharply. "What? Would you get that out of-" Alfred's eyes widened as he caught what both Matthew and Francis were staring at out the window. "Shit."

He leaped to his feet without hesitation, and it was only to his credit that he could let bygones be bygones so fast. Alfred shoved past the waiters and waitresses clogging the front entrance, bursting out into the street. "Arthur! Hell!"

His foot throbbed sharply, but he ignored it, limping forward like some wrathful wood-legged pirate. "Hey, you, put him down!"

This was the scene that Alfred came upon. Arthur was being lifted in the air by the collar of his shirt, struggling sharply against the heavy hands of some very tall, very angry looking man. Alfred didn't pause to think why or how, merely stormed up furiously and punched the guy, at least a head taller than him, in the shoulder. "Hey, dumbass. Put him down. He's like a third of your size."

The man lowered Arthur, blinking at him. And Alfred's eyes widened in recognition. What luck.

"Ivan, hey... it's me, yeah, haha," Alfred scratched the back of his neck. "That's umm... that's my employer. Would you mind setting him down?"

Ivan dropped Arthur who stumbled, hacking roughly and rubbing at his neck. He had a busted lip and a blackened eye. Alfred held out his arm to keep the smaller man steady.

"So you made it?" he asked genially. "And... you've met Arthur."

"He's our employer?" Ivan grunted in disbelief.

"_Our employer?"_ Arthur looked up at him scathingly.

Alfred laughed uneasily, feeling Arthur's groan rumble all through his small body.

**Thanks for reading and have a good break! Drop me a review and tell me what you think of Feli, Ludwig, and Lovino. I haven't ever written them before... There's a first for everything, I suppose. :) And isn't Artie being such a little brat... I do so wonder why, haha. He'll have his reasons. Thanks guys, Review, Fave, and Follow!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello! Kind of an early update, but I'm heading to school tomorrow, so thought I'd stick another one up.**

**This chapter is unashamedly, completely UsUk. Sorry other characters... with that said, it's my favorite so far ;)**

**Thanks so much to my reviewers: hexa, Sandra DeNite, sim, and Sebbyfuzz. Y'all definitely make my day ;p**

**Read on and review, thanks! -doze**

"This is all your f-f-fault..." Arthur dissolved into a coughing fit, clutching his ribs as Alfred led him down the sidewalk in search of a cab. "I'm n-n-never..._wheeze..._ going t-t-to... _pant..._ t-talk to you agai-n-n-n. "

"Honestly, that would suit me just fine," Alfred replied stiffly, looking very uncomfortable with his arm around Arthur's waist. "What am I supposed to say? I'm sorry you had to talk smack to Ivan, alright? I don't see how that particular part is my fault."

"Y-y-you should have come out sooner, i-imbecile. He p-punched me in the r-ribs at l-l-least twice..." Arthur ran his fingers tenderly across his side. Alfred raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"You were there when I said all that stuff and you ran over my foot, right? You would honestly still expect me to come heroically plunging to your rescue after that?"

Arthur scowled. "Well, you did."

Alfred sighed heavily, stopping on the edge of the sidewalk and waiting for the yellow Honda. "So I did. Even an annoying asshole like you doesn't deserve to get beat up by Ivan."

He waited for Arthur to get into the car and then hopped gingerly in as well, rubbing at his pulsing foot. "Hospital, please."

Arthur turned to glare moodily out the window, ignoring him. Alfred was honestly too tired to proactively hate Arthur so he just leaned his head back against the seat and tried to organize his thoughts. He had sent Francis, Matthew, and Ivan back to Arthur's place in Arthur's car. Arthur had nearly killed him for it, but Alfred needed to go to the hospital anyway, and Ivan assured him that Arthur's ribs were broken. Why waste a trip when they could go together?

They arrived and Alfred half dragged a coughing Arthur out. He was in a foul mood to no surprise, and every five seconds he made sure to let Alfred know it, complaining about everything under the sun. He was hungry. Alfred was an idiot. He was in pain. Alfred was an idiot. He was annoyed. Alfred was an idiot.

Alfred finally scrapped the shredded remains of his patience and turned on Arthur with a snarl. "Mr. Kirkland!"

He blinked in surprise when Arthur abruptly shut up. The expression in his green eyes was unsettling... almost vulnerable. Alfred suddenly felt bad for snapping at him. Surely, he'd already done it enough for one night.

"I have an idea," he began in a compromising tone, looking around the full to bursting point ER waiting room. "I'm going to go down to the cafeteria and get something for us to eat. We both hardly ate anything, and I am," he smiled slightly, "very aware that you are hungry. You can sit up here and call me if they ring you in, alright?"

Arthur nodded mutely. Alfred sighed.

He wandered downstairs, taking a random gander over what Arthur would like and hoping he wouldn't whine too much about it. He felt like stalling. He was very tired of Arthur at the moment. And no, at the moment, it wasn't because he was angry. If anything, it was because he was confused and he didn't understand what was expected of him. When an employer hired him, he could usually figure out quite easily what they wanted from him, and Alfred, ever the people pleaser, would do his best to get them both there, albeit in his own way. Arthur was confusing... in the sense that... well... Alfred exhaled huffily as he boarded the elevator.

He somewhat cared about Arthur. Somewhat. He supposed that was why it got under his skin so much when Arthur acted ridiculous, and he supposed that was why he was trying so hard to meet him where he was at. There was no other explanation. Arthur, in all his unreasonable annoying behavior, had become something of a favorite of his. He somewhat cared. Arthur was by far the most interesting employer he'd ever had.

He entered the stuffy room again full of hurt New Yorkers and endless litanies of complaints, only to find that the master of complaining was sitting in perfect silence, looking a bit lost. "Hey, Arthur," he greeted warmly, wishing that the night would just hurry up and end.

He spread their fast food across their laps, offering Arthur a large stack of paper napkins with a wry grin. "Sorry, I figured this would be kind of nasty for you. But it's all they had. Dig in."

Arthur didn't offer him any complaints, brow furrowing. He began to pick fries from Alfred's large container silently nibbling on the ends. He'd eaten nearly half the box when he finally looked up, green eyes wide.

"I'm sorry," he growled it angrily, like he hated to say it. But his eyes gave away his sincerity.

Alfred shrugged lightly, "It's okay. So long as you're still gunna pay me, I'll still get you your plane."

"I was flustered. I... I didn't mean to run over your foot like that."

Alfred hesitated, "...I know."

Arthur scowled, looking away. "I was mad at you."

"Yes, I figured." Alfred cocked his head to the side waiting for more.

"Because..." Arthur hesitated now. "...Francis." He managed, swiping a hand under his hot collar.

"Uh-huh," said Alfred, not even understanding why at all. So Arthur hated the Frenchman... therefore, Arthur hated Alfred for wanting to eat at a French restaurant? He felt like he was missing something here. The whole time Francis had been laughing and Mattie had been exasperated.

Arthur seemed relieved that Alfred didn't push it any further. "I forgive you."

Alfred blinked, "Me?"

"Yes, for what you said. Now, you have to forgive me." Arthur snatched a fry and stuck it primly in his mouth, raising his thick eyebrows expectantly.

Alfred wasn't so sure it worked like that. "You're odd, Arthur. Alright, if it'll make you feel better, I'll say it. I forgive you." He felt like they were kindergarteners swapping sandwiches on the playground or something. He was pretty sure forgiveness wasn't a fair exchange kind of thing, but Arthur seemed pleased to have it over. So he let it be.

"Now..." Arthur began thoughtfully. "You stuck Francis with the tab for dinner. And you paid for our burgers..." He considered for a moment. "I'll pay for this visit. Fair enough?"

Alfred laughed, "Hardly. The burgers were eight bucks. I'm pretty sure this'll cost a good deal more than eight bucks."

"Fine. Give me your burger." He had finished his own at this point and held out his hand demandingly. "Then, it'll be fair."

"No, it won't," Alfred snorted, shoving his hand away. "And you already had a burger. I want this one."

"Alfred, you hardly need it. You had the rest of your salad before you came out and helped me."

"What? No, I didn't! I had like one bite!"

"Give it here."

"No... no... Arthur! Get out of my face!" Alfred laughed in disbelief when Arthur tried to grab the greasy burger before he could bite into it. "You're ridiculous!"

"I'm hungry," Arthur growled, "If you would have picked a proper place for dinner, we wouldn't be having this problem at all." He crossed his arms then, giving Alfred a venomous look. "And you call me selfish."

"You are selfish!" Alfred blurted, "You already had one!"

Arthur huffed that it didn't damn matter that he already had one, turning his glare to the ceiling in sulky defeat. Alfred's lips twitched. Reluctantly, he took his burger and ripped it in two.

"Fiiiiiiinne." He groaned overdramatically, holding it out for him. "We'll go halfsies. But you owe me something for it."

"What do you want?" Arthur asked, taking the little offering contentedly and setting to devour it.

Alfred frowned, surprised that it had been that easy. "Can you give me a while to think?"

"Nope. Answer now or forever hold your peace." Alfred wondered if he was only imagining the slight turning up of the corners of Arthur's lips.

"So about that Edo period painting..."

"No." Arthur spat, swiping a napkin across his mouth mercilessly. "Don't even."

"I was just joking. Hold your horses." Alfred smiled, finishing up the rest of his half-burger. "Actually... no joking... I'd like to see one of your houses sometime."

Arthur glanced up in surprise, his fringe falling choppily in his eyes. "That's all?"

"Yep, official tour and all, of course. I'd expect you to show me around," Alfred grinned playfully.

"I'd show you around just to keep you from stealing anything," muttered Arthur.

Alfred smiled. "I wouldn't steal anything. Cross my heart and hope to die." He leaned forward suddenly. "I'll tell you a secret, Arthur. I don't steal anything unless someone asks me to."

Arthur frowned skeptically. "You've never stolen anything just for yourself?"

"No, it's not my way. I would feel bad keeping it."

"But you don't feel bad stealing it?"

"Well..." Alfred shrugged, "No, I'm just a piece of someone else's puzzle. Obviously I get paid for it... but..." Alfred smiled. "I do it for other reasons too."

Arthur watched him quietly, before nodding. They fell into silence as the room slowly emptied around them. It was nearly midnight by the time they got called back. Alfred filled out the paperwork, partially accurate and partially inaccurate, just wanting to head home. A doctor, after x-raying Alfred's foot, set it in a walking cast and told him to come back in six weeks. It should be mostly healed by then and loaded him up on pain killers till he nearly fell asleep waiting in the office for Arthur. Arthur did have a couple broken ribs, luckily no punctures. The doctors made sure the ribs were set to heal in the right position and then gave him some very strong pain meds because there wasn't much they could do.

By the time they were finished, they were exhausted and had both resolved in their own minds that fighting like this was stupid. Alfred rode with Arthur back to the penthouse. Flipping on the lights, they found a note listing the hotels that Francis and Ivan were staying at. Matthew had gone back to his place. Alfred yawned then. The clock over the stove said two a.m. He was ready to drop.

"Well, I guess I'll come by tomorrow, Arthur. I didn't get to explain much of the plan like I meant to. So we can have a briefing then, I guess." Alfred scratched the back of his head tiredly, trying to keep his eyes open.

Arthur had shrugged out of his suit jacket and was now loosening his tie. "Yes... hmm... sounds nice," he yawned too, glancing up at Alfred curiously as he kicked off his loafers by the door. "You... you can stay here, then... if you'd like."

Alfred blinked stupidly, feeling vaguely that that was something off limits, or at least that should be off limits, but not quite sure why at this hour. "Would you have somewhere for me to sleep?"

"The bed?" Arthur waved a hand towards the back hallway.

"Oh, okay," Alfred smiled, "Thanks, you're not so bad sometimes." He left Arthur in the kitchen and went into what he assumed was the guest bedroom, kicking off his shoes and dropping his jacket on the floor. The covers were heavenly soft even though he was too tired to even get under them, burying his face into one of the plush pillows.

"These are nice, Arthur," he commented woozily, when Arthur came in. He didn't think it odd that Arthur laid down next to him.

"Of course," Arthur settled with a sigh, still in his clothes as well.

"Your ribs still hurt?" Alfred turned to face him, frowning.

"A bit, yeah. I'll live."

Alfred smiled wearily. "You'll have to take me to one of your houses sometime. I'm holding you to that."

"Of course." Arthur gave him a half-smile back, making Alfred think suddenly of Francis and his wide smiles. They were nothing compared to Arthur's. Arthur's secretive, silent, special ones.

"Good night, Arthur," he mumbled when he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer and all the drugs did him in.

"Good night." Arthur murmured back.

0 0 0

It took Alfred a minute to remember where he was. There was a thudding going on in the background and he rolled onto his side to yell at Mattie to get the hell up and get the door. He blinked his eyes open sleepily when he rolled into someone, wondering why Mattie had decided to get in his bed with him. "Oh!"

He jumped backwards with a jolt, and for a couple of horrifying seconds couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. Arthur was snoring slightly, tousle-haired and open-mouthed, laying on his back not inches away from Alfred. He was still in his rumpled button-up and slacks, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. He twitched a bit when Alfred moved and lifted the covers up, exposing them both to a blast of cold air.

Alfred was wondering how to get out of this. For lack of better terms, they'd both gotten doped at the hospital and then crashed at Arthur's place. He couldn't even remember really... it'd been two a.m. Why the hell had he agreed to this?

There was some muffled yelling and thudding coming from outside. Alfred's heart sunk when he realized who it would inevitably be. There was no way out of this. Everyone would get the entirely wrong impression and that was just what he didn't need right now with Francis acting so smug and Ivan joining the crew.

He laid perfectly still, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how he would get out of this. First, he needed to get out of the bed... preferably without waking Arthur. He had a feeling that this could end in a thousand worlds of awkward if Arthur were to wake up. And honestly, if Arthur wasn't in a really generous mood, Alfred would be the one getting lambasted as a weird rapist. The second thing he needed to do... He needed to fix his clothes and answer the door. Act as if he'd just so happened to crash on the couch. Emphasize that they'd gotten back at two a.m.

Alfred exhaled heavily. First mission. Extremely carefully, he began to peel back the covers, trying his absolute hardest not to shake the bed in any way, shape, or form. He cringed when one of the springs made an absolutely horrid noise. Arthur's mouth twitched but he snored on, and Alfred thanked god for the painkillers. Gently, gently, gently, he swung one foot over the edge and then untangled his sticky cast from the covers, holding his breath, second foot. He sat on the edge, the precipice now, smiling proudly.

Arthur was still stone cold out. Now, to the bathroom to clean up. He pushed up triumphantly and... fell down with a painful crash.

"Shit!" He spat, clutching his ankle, feeling like it was made of some kind of boiling lava, completely useless for actually moving around.

Arthur sat stark upright, blinking in shock, hair teased out like electricity had gotten hold of it. Just as quickly, he doubled over coughing heavily, looking like he might puke. Alfred felt like banging his head against the side table, but as quickly as lightning, he shuffled to all fours and began crawling towards the door. As Arthur was busy, maybe he could...

"A-Alfred... d-damn it..." His green eyes sparked with fire, one of them highlighted by the ugly black and purple ring Ivan had left.

"Yeah...haha... sorry, buddy. I'll be back." And Alfred tried to get to the door, but Arthur was mad. It wasn't happening.

"G-g-get over here, you dumbass." He stumbled out of the bed, clutching his ribs with one arm, the other fumbling out. He dropped to his knees, barely managing to grab Alfred by the shoulder. His strength wasn't all there as he was still hacking. Alfred could have easily broken away. But he obediently sat down next to him. Somewhat worried for him. Somewhat.

"Alright, Arthur?" He mumbled finally, once Arthur had caught his breath. Hopefully, Arthur wouldn't be too mad. He would offer to make tea to smooth things over, even find an excuse to send the others away for a couple of hours. But then Arthur sighed scratchily, dropping his forehead to Alfred's shoulder where his white knuckles still clutched at Alfred's shirt.

"Don't move." He whispered thinly.

As it was, Alfred had already frozen. He could feel Arthur's hot breath against his arm through his thin dress shirt, sending shivers all through him.

"Arthur..." He prompted cautiously, because this hadn't at all been the response he was expecting.

"Don't... say anything."

Alfred fell quiet then, looking at the top of Arthur's mussed head. Very slowly like he would break glass or scare him away if he moved too quickly, Alfred's fingers stretched upwards and he quietly combed them through Arthur's hair. Arthur stiffened, but didn't move away, and Alfred ran his hand gently again and again through the choppy, static-y strands, offering what he hoped was some small comfort or, at the very least, distraction. It was his fault after all. If he hadn't invited Ivan out, none of this would have happened.

Alfred generously shoved away the fact that it had been Arthur who provoked him, finding that his loyalty remained ever with his employer... and especially with this one.

His blonde hair was surprisingly soft; it hardly looked it. Alfred continued to pet him there, partially out of his own fascination now. That Arthur would even let him. The man next to him was a billionaire with houses and cars and all kinds of unimaginable treasures to his name, money, jewels, artifacts, gold and silver. And that was nothing to say of his pride. The silkiness of his button-up, the real leather and silver of his belt, the tailor-made trousers. Wealthy. Alfred closed his eyes. Ridiculously wealthy.

If he thought about it too long and hard, wealth made him sick. Because for every one extreme, there was another. A kid with wide eyes and a hollow belly in a hot city and no shoes. Alfred's eyes jerked open, and his hand hovered over Arthur's golden head, feeling sickened at the extravagance of it all. Sometimes he hated himself.

Arthur sensed him stop, but didn't look up, reaching instead with his other hand out blindly until he felt Alfred's wrist, pushing at him, wanting more of it. Alfred swallowed heavily, roughing Arthur's hair sloppily instead. "Come on, now. We can't sit here all day. There's work to be done."

It took another long minute, but Arthur eventually pulled back to look at him with tired green eyes. Alfred felt the odd desire to protect him then, from whatever it may be. He reached out again, the last time, he promised to himself, and brushed his fingers through the fine gold strands. He figured they may as well be real gold for what Arthur was worth.

Arthur watched him silently, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows as Alfred lowered his hand to rest it on the mahogany floor. Arthur stared at it for a long time like he could make it move again. There was silence in the room, except for the huffing of the heater vent not too far away. Alfred started to get up, but Arthur began to speak, quickly to stop him.

"How much?" He rasped with difficulty, eyes on Alfred's dirty fingernails.

"For what?" Alfred frowned at him. He was whispering, because there was something in the air now. It scared him to think he could have stopped it if he'd only yanked out of Arthur's grasp before.

"How much?" Arthur asked again, voice cracking painfully. He swallowed dryly, not meeting Alfred's gaze.

Alfred said nothing this time, trying to read him. It was impossible when he refused to look up like that. "What do you want?" he whispered softly, in confusion.

Arthur shut his eyes tight, fingers curling into fists against the wood. "H-how much... f-for you to stay here with me?"

Alfred stared, wondering if he'd heard correctly. Arthur kept his eyes shut, shifting away... shuffling a hand into his trouser pocket and... drawing out his billfold. He tossed it so that it hit the ground with a rich thud, the worn leather splaying open just a bit, showing the shiny diamond backs of numerous Visas... MasterCards... American Express...

Alfred swallowed, wondering if he was serious. Carefully, he reached forward and picked up the wallet, turning it on its side... His mouth parted slightly at all the cash... pounds and dollars... more than Mattie got paid in a year probably. He looked back up at Arthur who was stiff as a board, eyes still screwed shut.

...And he suddenly felt extremely sorry for him.

He closed the billfold gently, not removing a single penny. Slipping forward on his knees, he took it between two fingers and slid it carefully back into Arthur's pocket. Arthur opened his eyes slowly, blinking at him unsurely. His gaze flicked down, looking to see if Alfred had taken anything, but Alfred calmly reached up and ran a hand through his hair.

Arthur, seemingly unable to help himself, scooted into his touch, and Alfred smiled softly, swallowing his utter bewilderment for the moment. "If that's all you want, I think I can give it to you on the house... if you'll promise not to tell anyone."

Arthur's brow furrowed in surprise, and he opened his mouth. Before he could speak, Alfred put a finger over his lips. "Promise?" he asked huskily, blue eyes serious, but warm and gentle.

Arthur closed his mouth... and nodded.

Alfred got gingerly to his feet and offered Arthur his hand. "Let me be your gentleman," he laughed sincerely, easily pulling Arthur up and towards the bed. "I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot, eh? Haha." He stuck out his broken one in amusement, trying to put Arthur at ease.

Arthur didn't look at him, staring at the floor. He was extremely awkward about this, highlighting to Alfred how very un-used to it he must be. Having people be kind for free. He let go of Arthur's hand and laid out on the bed, waiting for him to come along. He didn't.

Alfred sighed. "Arthur... come here. You'll feel better for it... I promise."

Instead of going to his side of the bed, Arthur went directly to stand by Alfred's, eyes ever fixed on the floor. Alfred swallowed, feeling his heart burn. He reached out then, taking Arthur's thin hands and pulling him up. "You don't have to pay for me..." Alfred murmured, gentle to push Arthur on his back, wary of his hurt ribs. "Consider this... let's see, you read a lot right? Consider this Wonderland."

Arthur's green eyes flicked over to him in confusion.

Alfred smiled, smoothing down Arthur's hair fondly. "Yes, consider this Wonderland or Douglas Adams' Galaxy, like the Land of Oz or Treasure Island or Homer's Ancient Rome. Like Neverland, alright, Arthur? We're in Neverland. When we're done, we'll just close the book, okay? All it costs is some imagination and a bit of faith in me."

He continued to stroke Arthur's hair, watching in disbelief as the billionaire seemed to melt into his side, green eyes drooping.

"Okay... What does that make me?" He asked very softly, hesitantly ducking his head into Alfred's shoulder. "Alice? Dorothy? Peter?"

"Why, all three," Alfred murmured, allowing his fingers to trace down further against Arthur's smooth cheek. "Achilles, Jim Hawkins, and..." Alfred's lips twitched. "Why, you're Arthur, too."

"I suppose I am," he muttered, voice growing slower and heavier. "Though, Arthur Kirkland, not Arthur Dent."

"Yes, I like you that way," Alfred agreed, smiling.

"Do you really?" Arthur's eyes were closed and he sounded genuinely surprised.

"Of course," Alfred pretended to act surprised as well, now running a thumb tenderly back and forth against the downy hairs of Arthur's neck. "You're King Arthur, aren't you? Everyone likes you."

Arthur shifted into him more. "Is that how you think of me?"

"Well... I am your loyal servant and knight, contracted to do your will and yours alone. It would come with the territory that I think you're the coolest." He grinned easily, finding that the words came effortlessly to him, murmuring them so there wasn't a chance anyone but Arthur would hear.

"You're... you're a good knight."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Is it cuz I work for free?" Alfred teased.

"Yes."

Alfred laughed richly and Arthur heard it rumbling heavily in his chest. Carefully, he reached up to play with the collar of Alfred's shirt, his morning breath just as spectacular as the next Average Joe.

Alfred's lips twitched speculatively. "What are you doing, Your Majesty? I imagine the shirt is already wrinkled beyond repair." He continued to rub Arthur's back gently, feeling his shoulder blades, prominent and uncomfortable through the fabric.

"That's an English made shirt. I thought so," Arthur murmured sleepily, dropping his hands.

"Well, of course it's not French," Alfred snorted intuitively, once again knowing exactly what to say. "Like I could ever stand the smell."

Arthur didn't say anything, but he ducked his head suddenly closer, right to Alfred's chest. Alfred continued to stroke him dotingly against his neck, the back of his head, down his spine. Arthur's breathing slowed until he was nearly asleep, laying on his side now, fingers pressed against Alfred's stomach.

The knocking from outside had long ago gone away, leaving Alfred under the impression that maybe they _had_ just slipped their realm.

He peered down his nose at the mass of blonde hair warm against his neck and heart... and decided that it couldn't hurt him. They were in Neverland, after all. He brought his lips down to kiss the mussed locks, feeling them tickle his nose, all of Arthur's heat radiating against his chin. Rather than pull away completely, he turned his head to the side, resting his cheek there, letting his eyes close as well.

This was... nice. And it didn't feel... strange. They couldn't tell anyone. Matthew would undoubtedly condemn him for trying to earn brownie points with the boss this way or something. But... what points? Alfred wasn't getting paid.

He sighed, brushing that off impatiently. He was comfortable. Arthur was comfortable. And that was all that mattered.

So much for briefing. So much for breakfast. But... so much more Arthur. And Alfred wasn't sure how he felt about that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Here's chapter six after a pretty long break... sorry! **

**So I feel that I'm indulging my UsUk a bit much... but hey, I promise this chapter moves things forward... p-promise. **

**Gil and Antonio will be making their debut for part of next chapter, because I need my albino and Spanish dude. Don't worry. Every character _is _relevant. I swear all the pieces will fall together. **

**Also, thanks so much to my reviewers! You guys write the most encouraging things. -doze**

Matthew traced a finger over the endless litany of papers scattered across Arthur's bar. The afternoon sunlight was sinking in the sky already developing that heady evening tint. Around him, the fireplace glowed with warmth and Alfred's assembled crack team awaited their briefing. It wasn't surprising that they had started much later than was expected.

He glanced up absently, watching the proceedings in true wallpaper form.

Francis must have some kind of obsession with baking pastries because the penthouse was once again full of their smell and Alfred's cheeks were full as well. His brother leaned easily against the counter, shifting stacks around and mixing a variety of crumbs between the papers. He was in a suit... again. He seemed to have developed quite the collection since Matthew had last seen him. His longish hair fluttered about his face, eyes blue enough to make the gray of his tie seem colorful. Francis made a lilting comment and Alfred rolled his eyes, shooting something back, tucking another croissant cleanly into his cheek.

Ivan was standing statue-like at the window, running his fingers robotically down the length of a woolly scarf. He was something of the oddball of their group, though Alfred had greeted him warmly enough. In the sunlight, his eyes were violently purple and hair the mushy color of dirty snow. He hadn't said much this whole time, and Matthew hadn't quite decided what to make of him.

His eyes landed on the last and perhaps most interesting subject of interest. Arthur was standing in the kitchen as well with the other two. He and Alfred hadn't said a word to each other since the meeting had officially started, leaving Matthew all the more curious. He knew that any suspicion of his was probably ridiculous. It was just a bit strange to think that Alfred... hadn't come home last night.

He frowned speculatively, watching as Alfred would straighten a pile of papers, subsequently knock them over and Arthur would, with a machine-like consistency, pick them all up and hand them back to him. It happened at least three times, and neither of them seemed to notice they were doing it. Hardly an effective system to say the least.

"Alright!" Alfred clapped his hands suddenly, grinning as Arthur handed him the stack of papers for the sixth time. "I've got the plans. Everyone come over here." He shifted eagerly, tapping his fingers against the granite. His excitement was obvious. The revelation of any heinous scheme was adrenaline inducing for Alfred Jones.

"Right..." he murmured when everyone stood expectantly around him. "Right... Alright..."

"Alfred, get on with it," Francis cut in with annoyance. "I'm pretty sure I already know what you want me to do."

Alfred reddened, but went on grinning. "Sure thing, Francis. Here's how it's going to go down. At least so far as I know..." He paused again, swallowing and throwing a very quick glance at Arthur before continuing. "Mattie," he addressed Matthew, with raised eyebrows. "You're my computer crack-er, kay? Security systems, standard stuff, ya know? I would do it myself, but I'll be on the ground floor and I know I can trust my bro to have everything set up when I walk in."

Matthew nodded resignedly. He'd been expecting something of that nature. In reality, he knew Alfred was being kind to him, keeping him away from participating in the physical theft.

Of course, with Alfred, there was only a sliver of chance in actually being caught. Matthew didn't like to admit it, but Alfred was usually pretty good at this sort of thing. When they went Christmas shopping for their parents all those years ago, Alfred had known just how to run into the department store their mom worked at, buy what they needed, bribe the employees not to spill to their mother, and make it back in time for a round of hot chocolates. Alfred was good. Matthew didn't need convincing.

Francis didn't either. He'd dropped everything to show up, because he and Alfred had worked together before. He knew what "fun" it could be to be involved in an Alfred-style felony. Ivan, though Matthew didn't really know him at all, seemed to trust Alfred as well. Of course, none of that really mattered.

It only mattered whether Arthur trusted Alfred.

As Alfred went into more detail over what he expected from Matthew, deviating into extremely nerdy computer terms and specifics, Matthew expected Arthur to be interrupting with his own interrogation. He was just that sort of person. He would want his money's worth. But he stayed unusually silent, nibbling at one of Francis' pastries distractedly, one arm nursing his side with all the broken ribs.

He let Alfred go on for some time, occasionally sliding the right papers over to him, but that was the epitome of his involvement. Matthew caught him looking longingly at a bottle of scotch on the back counter more than once.

When Alfred told Francis in as crude terms as possible that he'd be their hooker-for-hire, Arthur didn't even seem _to hear_.

"Ah well," Francis shrugged, "It is my way, _oui, mon petit?_" He nudged Arthur in the side, smirking devilishly and obviously put-off by the lack of reaction.

Arthur jumped, ripped from his thoughts. He blinked at him for a minute, before shaking his head sharply. "Yes, you're a hooker, Francis. Scream it from the rooftops."

"That's an interesting lack of comeback, ain't it?" Alfred nudged him in the side too, smirking. "You don't have anything better than that?"

Arthur's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"_Oui_, Alfred is right," Francis laughed agreeably, "You're losing your touch."

"I'm not losing my damn touch..." Arthur scowled, picking a piece of lint off his shoulder petulantly. "I... I'm hungry. I can't focus."

"There's about three dozen pastries scattered around," Alfred rolled his eyes, picking up the next stack of papers and handing them to Francis. "Why don't you eat some of those?"

"I'm not going to eat _French _pastries."

"You just were," Alfred and Francis said at the same time, their heads tilted together as Alfred explained some of the terms.

"W-what? I wasn't!"

"You were," Francis looked at him incredulously. "Matthew, tell him he was."

Matthew swallowed, wishing he hadn't been brought into this. "He was."

Arthur scowled, looking ready to curse them to hell and back. He crossed his arms tightly... and subsequently made himself yelp in staggering pain. Ivan's eyes glittered in some kind of dark amusement and Francis snickered. Alfred went on talking about the plans like he hadn't even heard, but he slid his soda and plate of pastries over to Arthur in such nonchalance that at first Matthew thought he was just stretching.

Arthur hesitated too, as if he thought it were just an accident. But his dry throat got the better of him and he raised Alfred's glass daintily to his lips, draining it in a couple long draughts.

"What am I to be doing?" Ivan asked suddenly, apparently fed up with the lack of progress. They all stared, except Alfred who grabbed another stack and handed it to him.

"That's a brief outline," he explained, turning back to Francis. "You can just scan that and ask me any questions and things. If it doesn't look like you'll be able to do what I ask, then I'll have your vow of secrecy and you can be on your way. If you're in, then, well you're in." He shrugged and smiled. "Just don't think I don't have my methods for punishing those who tattle."

With that said, Alfred began shoving all of the rest of the papers together cramming them haphazardly into an accordion folder. Matthew frowned.

"Alfred?" he asked tentatively, "Is that really all? I mean, don't you have a time line? Or something?"

Alfred waved him off carelessly. "More or less. Don't stress, Matthew. I'll go over that after you've read through your itinerary. Give it a day or two to sink in. I know what I'm doing." He assured with a smile, though something about it seemed forced to Matthew. He bustled quickly past them, shoving his file into a back pack and then slinging it over his shoulders.

"You're leaving?" Francis asked in surprise. "We only got here half an hour ago."

"Ah, well," Alfred laughed, walking backwards towards the door. "It's been a bit of a long day for me."

"You're okay with this, Arthur?" Francis prompted incredulously, if not a little suspiciously, "He hasn't even explained anything yet, really."

"Ah," Arthur looked away, frowning, a bit of pastry crumbs caught on the corners of his lips. He twisted his fingers together uncertainly. "Well... there's really no rush. It's not as if we're on a time crunch. Anyway, I've had quite the... long day as well. I haven't eaten anything at all since we've been-" He cut off abruptly, clearing his throat. "Excuse me." And then to Alfred, though he was more or less addressing the floor at this point, "Yes, go on, Alfred. I'll call the next meeting sometime in the next two weeks."  
"Two weeks?" Matthew couldn't help but ask. Even Ivan beside him was looking surprised. "When do you want to have this done by?"

Arthur scowled, "Don't worry about it. I'll compensate you for your extra time. Please, I..." He exhaled heavily. "Could you all please show yourselves out?"

Matthew looked back to see that Alfred hadn't even stuck around long enough to hear the rest of Arthur's sentence.

0 0 0

"I just don't understand what that was all about," he insisted later that night, refusing to stop pestering until he got a decent answer. "And why didn't you come home yesterday?"

Alfred groaned, tossing his head backwards from his spot on the couch, t-shirt pulling up slightly to show his stomach. He was doing what their mother liked to call 'beaching about', because he looked like a beached whale when he complained like that. "It's not that difficult, Matthew. I already said. Arthur and I got patched up at the hospital. They gave us a ton of medicine. We got back at two a.m. He let me sleep on his couch. And we slept for most of the day, alright? I'm sorry I didn't notify you I'd be staying the night, mom." He added it at the end spitefully, rubbing his eyes in the dim light of the television screen.

Matthew frowned and settled on the carpet. "I don't believe you."

"I don't really care. It's the truth."

"I don't think so. For one, it doesn't even make sense. It's weird for you to spend the night at his house when he was the one who ran over your foot in the first place."

"I don't care what you think. You can't change the truth."

"You can if you lie about it." Matthew muttered.

"I don't care, Matthew. God, I don't care!" Alfred threw his arms straight up in exasperation. "Could you please just stop jumping all in my business?"

Matthew rolled his eyes, "I'm not jumping in your business. It's my business too. I'm part of this."

"I don't want to talk anymore," Alfred glowered at the ceiling. "I'm stuffed from Francis' stupid buffet."

"Well considering you gave Arthur half your pastries_, I would wonder_ at that statement..." Matthew fixed his eyes on the screen petulantly... and then cried out in pain when he felt Alfred's fist crash down on his head. "Al?! What the hell!?"

"I figured we could settle this like brothers. If you're so intent on getting all up in my grill," Alfred smiled nastily.

Matthew opened his mouth to shoot back, but they were interrupted by a rousing number of God Save the Queen. Alfred's eyes grew as wide as saucers.

"Alfred?" He prompted. "Alfred, what is that?" The music was obnoxiously loud, and it wasn't the TV. Matthew turned to see that Alfred's cell phone was lit up on the counter. "Aren't you going to answer that?"

Alfred just stared at it for a very long time, before finally jolting to his feet like he'd been shocked. He hobbled on his cast over to the counter, snatching up the scratched iPhone and fumbling with it. "Hello?" he asked, voice unusually gruff. "Yeah... hey... alright... I guess I can..." He threw a venomous look at Matthew, waving furiously towards the bedroom.

He could tell that Alfred wanted to be left alone, but he simply shrugged, acting like he didn't understand. Sometimes, he couldn't help being an ass of a brother.

Alfred flipped him off silently and turned his back. "Sure... I'll... I'll be over in a minute... No... I'd rather not talk about that right now... when I get there... Hey, you owe me dinner for this." He trailed into quiet before laughing so loudly it made Matthew jump. "No way... You're an asshole... Haha, yeah, I sure could use it... So you want me to... yep, yep... Alright, be there in a sec. Night."

"Who was that?" Matthew asked as Alfred scrambled about grabbing things.

"Who do you think it was?"

"If I say my guess, there's a liable chance you'll rip my head off."

Alfred shrugged, grinning, "Weigh your options carefully, then. Answer or no answer." He shoved two laptops under his arm, making a pile of things he'd be taking on the counter. He was in his boxers and ducked into the bedroom, coming out in a pair of jeans. Matthew was surprised to hear him whistling as he gathered the brown paper sack from before, full of various candies.

"You're in a good mood..." Matthew muttered, "That's throwing me off."

Alfred laughed. "But the answer is obvious."

"Mmm..."

Alfred pulled on his one sneaker, cringing as his cast rubbed him the wrong way. He gathered up all his stuff informing Matthew that he'd be borrowing the rental because he couldn't hold it all on his motorbike.

"Wait," Matthew called before Alfred was all the way out the door. "I won't guess... but..."

Alfred raised his eyebrows, holding onto his Yankees ball cap to keep it from blowing off in the winter wind. "But what?"

"Why are you so happy?"

Alfred chuckled, biting his chapped lips. "Because where I'm going it's going to be _warm."_ He slammed the door behind him, eyes glowing with something that made Matthew incredibly ill at ease.

0 0 0

Alfred leaned in the doorway, grinning. "Where's my dinner, babe?"

Arthur scowled, "Don't speak to me that way or I may change my mind."

"Come on," Alfred smirked, shifting his bundle of stuff to his other arm. "Unless you're planning to eat two people's worth of takeout _again,_ you should let me in. I can smell it from out here."

"I'm surprised you came," Arthur muttered acidly, stepping out of the doorway anyway and letting him in.

"You're giving me what you owe me. I may never get this chance for the rest of my life." Alfred dropped his stuff on the couch, "Oooh, Chinese, Arthur. Yes, I thoroughly agree." He half-skipped over to the bar counter, pulling white boxes out of the plastic sack eagerly. "I can't believe you'd like this stuff."

"It's not my favorite," Arthur muttered with a wrinkle to his nose, but pulled a box of noodles over none the less.

Alfred smiled slightly, "When are we leaving?"

"Tonight, if you want," Arthur shrugged noncommittally, making a show of actually using the chopsticks that came with the food while Alfred had to search out a fork.

"Oh aren't you cultured," Alfred snorted, elbowing him in the arm, still notoriously wary of his hurt ribs. "Where'd you learn to do that? China?"

"Beijing," Arthur smirked idly, "Ever been?" He leaned his cheek on his knuckles, studded cufflinks brighter than ever in the bar lights.

"What? Is that a joke? I've been everywhere," Alfred claimed loftily, unable to keep from smiling even though Arthur was still acting like such an arrogant ass.

"Everywhere?" Arthur challenged lazily, more picking at his food than eating it. "London?"

"Well... everywhere except London. I was avoiding you." He said it through a mouthful, watching the diamond-like pattern cast across the granite from Arthur's ruby-ed cufflinks.

"Naturally," Arthur snorted, abruptly snatching the box of rice from him. Alfred, in turn, grabbed the box of noodles from him and they stared at each other challengingly.

"Naturally," Alfred mimicked, licking his lips and twisting a large swash of noodles up on his fork. "You have a reputation, Kirkland. I've heard of you way over here."

"Have you now?" Arthur sounded un-amused, if unsurprised. "Well, don't let that stop you from going to London, Mr. Everywhere. It's the best city in the world."

"Oh, you may have a bit of a bias there," Alfred shook his fork at him.

"Still," Arthur drawled, tapping his fingernails and making their food sparkle blood red, "Perhaps that just lends itself to me knowing it the best."

"Sure, it does," Alfred stood suddenly and Arthur watched despite himself, eyes half-lidded apathetically. He came back with the bottle of scotch he'd caught Arthur looking at more than once during their meeting. "This is American, buddy," he stated proudly, "All-American. Take that," he paused before adding, "...What do you say to sharing?" A sultry grin decorating his face devilishly.

"That depends," Arthur murmured lightly, abandoning his rice to trace the label on the bottle. The bloody scarlet of his cufflinks mixing oddly with the amber smolder cast across their fingertips. "Who's driving?" He looked up with chemical green eyes, wicked amusement dancing just behind his usual arrogant propriety.

Alfred swallowed, taken aback, "You're saying yes?"

"Oh, you know I wanted it. You wouldn't have brought it over otherwise." Arthur waved him off airily, spearing a last bit of rice into his mouth, eyes landing on him in a matter of frankness.

"So the only reason I do things is because you want them?"

"And you've been awfully good at it recently," Arthur grabbed the cap of the bottle and twisted it off with a slight pop of his wrist.

"You... trust me?" It was the first question that came to Alfred's mind under the circumstances. Because he suddenly realized where he was and what he'd just done. It wasn't scandalous... really. But he ditched his brother for who knew how long because Arthur had offered to take him down to Florida to see one of his houses. And... now that he really thought about it... why the hell had he agreed to this? Because under any circumstances, it was kind of... weird.

"Trust? You?" Arthur laughed richly, "Mr. Jones, you do so amuse me." He produced a glass tumbler out of mid air and filled it straight to the brim with liquid amber danger. Alfred swallowed.

"So I'm driving, I take it?" He asked weakly, pulling the box of rice to himself and watching Arthur drain half the glass in one gulp.

Arthur smiled, shivering as the alcohol sent warmth shooting all through him. Alfred took to ignoring him then... for some reason he couldn't watch. He ended up on the couch, sleeping, and it was only many, many hours later in the early morning hours when Arthur tripped onto him did he wake up.

"Arthur?" He growled blearily, rubbing at his eyes. "What the hell?... Hey... move... What are you doing?" He shoved Arthur in the shoulder impatiently. "Get off of me." Arthur had physically face-planted into his chest and was struggling to push himself up, hacking roughly.

Alfred finally lost his temper, irritable upon being woken up and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him up. "What the hell is your issue?"

Arthur blinked in confusion at him, thoroughly drunk, green eyes filled to the brim with haze. "Alfred?" He slurred numbly.

Alfred scowled, "Yes, it's me. I think you need to go to bed or something. That's certainly been enough to drink..." He trailed, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Because there were two empty scotch bottles instead of one. "Shit, Arthur, really? Why'd you drink so much? When are we supposed to leave? Fucking tomorrow evening? Geez, I can't take this." He breathed out through his mouth heavily. "I'm not your babysitter. I'm not... I didn't come here for that. I..." He sighed in pure frustration. "_Why the Sam Hill did I come here_?"

"I asked you to," Arthur said blankly. Without Alfred holding him up, he would have fallen over again. His hair was a whirlwind mess, tie undone, and a bit of amber stains around his suspenders from when he'd missed his mouth. The whole look and manner was vastly out of character for what Alfred knew of him. Then again... he was beginning to find out that perhaps he didn't know much.

Alfred sighed. "Alright, I'm a damn good guy. We'll leave it at that. Come on. Sit down. You'll want to sleep this one off." He scooted over, guiding Arthur to the spot next to him. "Stay here," he ordered, "I'm going to turn off the lights."

"Al-Alfred," Arthur called before he could reach the kitchen, "I... I think I'm going to-" His eyes grew huge and Alfred lunged forward shoving a four hundred dollar potted plant from Colombia into his hands. He would be killed for that in the morning. But, hey, it was the plant or the loafers and Arthur was horrendously attached to his finery.

Arthur raised his head up groaning. A sheen of sweat glistening with moonlight on his forehead, clammy hands trembling, his eyes partially screwed shut.

"You thirsty, Arthur?" Alfred asked, taking pity on him, wrestling about in his backpack for a moment.

"I-it probably... proba-b-bly wouldn't be... a... a good id-dea, but I'll-"

"No, no," Alfred shushed him, rolling his eyes. "Not more alcohol, idiot. Gatorade. It'll get rid of the nasty taste. I promise."

"You p-promise?" Arthur stuttered, looking confused.

Alfred just nodded, flipping off all the lights except for the one over the oven, creating a soft glow for him to find his way back to the couch. "Yep, promise. This was my trade secret. Gatorade and Sunny D. Vitamin C, my friend and electrolytes. Plus yellow Gatorade and orange juice taste kinda like a smoothie after you've burned yourself out on alcohol."

In the dark, he carefully mixed up his famous concoction, feeling Arthur's hot breath near his shoulder. "That should do it... Are you sure you want this now?"

Without any hesitation, Arthur reached for the proffered glass and started glugging it down, sloppily. Alfred watched his Adam's apple bob frantically in the moonlight, white knuckles gripped tight. His cufflinks caught the moonlight this time and glowed heady, dangerous red. Alfred carefully reached forward while he was still drinking and removed them, setting them on the coffee table. No doubt, they were worth more than his whole apartment complex. Arthur finally lowered the rim after halfway, panting a bit.

Alfred smiled tightly, but gave him a gentle rub on the back. "Thirsty, weren't ya?" Truthfully, it irritated him how willingly Arthur seemed to accept stuff from him. For all he knew, Alfred could have poisoned it.

Arthur didn't answer his question, raising the glass again and draining it. He held it out expectantly when he was done, for more, licking the corners of his lips.

Alfred laughed dryly despite himself, making Arthur's thick eyebrows draw together. "Come on, buddy, you don't want too much. You'll be puking again. I'm sure your stomach's upset enough as it is." He reached teasingly forward and ruffed a hand gently against Arthur's tummy. His mouth opening in slight disbelief when Arthur jumped away at first, but then leaned childishly into his touch, staring at Alfred like he was a foreign object.

After a bit of silence, in which Alfred was forcibly reminding himself that Arthur was very drunk, Arthur held out the glass more firmly. Alfred rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't be surprised if you weren't understanding a word I've said so far." Nonetheless, he took the glass and filled it again and Arthur took it back eagerly.

"It's a wonder you're not fat," He said freely, leaning back into the cushions and letting Arthur have at it. He already knew Arthur wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. "You've made quite the art of indulging yourself from what I've seen. And from what Francis has told me, quite the ongoing project."

Arthur looked up at Francis' name, brows furrowed. "I..." he swallowed, looking vaguely upset, eyes falling to Alfred's hands. "Don't... t-talk about me like... like th-that. I'll... f-fire you."

Alfred blinked, wondering if it counted if Arthur fired him when he was plastered. "Well, why does it matter how I talk about you so long as I can do the job well and get you what you want?" He asked reasonably, somewhat curious for the answer.

Arthur hiccupped, eyeing him over the rim. "I don't t-trust... _hic... _you."

"I don't think you're supposed to," Alfred shrugged with a sorry grin. "I'm a wily thief, remember?"

"Y-you're... y-you're fired," Arthur shoved a finger into his face annoyingly, making him lean so far back he almost fell off the edge of the couch.

"Am I?" Alfred found this deeply amusing. "Are you throwing me out, Mr. K? Should I pack up my stuff and be gone?"

"Th-that's r-right. L-leave... with y-your-r stupid f-face."

Alfred stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Very nice comeback, sir. I think you've quite improved from this morning."

He walked over to his stuff and began putting items back into his bag, knowing that he wouldn't really leave until tomorrow morning. It was dangerous to leave Arthur alone at this point.

"W-wait... wh-where are you going?" He slurred, standing shakily and suddenly looking lost. He was almost... cute. Though, Alfred quickly banished this thought to the nethermost regions of not-happening. "I-I... d-don't kn-know where I am. Y-you can't leave me... here." His voice took on a pleading tone, like he really were about to be stranded someplace he didn't know.

"You're in your penthouse, Arthur," Alfred sighed calmly, "Sit back dow- Woah, there!"

He lunged forward to keep Arthur from smacking his forehead on the coffee table when his knees gave out. "Yep... it's definitely past your bedtime," he growled as he tried to maneuver Arthur onto the couch. But Arthur didn't seem capable of moving his legs and dug his fingers sharply into Alfred's shoulders. Realizing there was only one way to do this and hoping to God he wouldn't get puked on, he started to pull Arthur up into his arms "...oomph... Give me a little help here, would ya?"

"Yeesh, you need to go easy on the scones, buddy," He finally managed to swing Arthur's legs up, and as if he'd been capable of moving the entire time Arthur sat stark upright on the couch, eyebrows raised... almost expectantly. Alfred sat down with him, deciding they'd just have to wade this out.

"P-promise?" Arthur suddenly pulled at his sleeve urgently, looking genuinely afraid.

Alfred's eyes narrowed shrewdly, "Promise what?"

Arthur made a soft noise in the back of his throat, but then scooted forward and... fell into Alfred's lap. Alfred froze in shock. He knew Arthur was drunk and probably hadn't meant to do that, but geez, he flinched violently. "...Alright, Arthur?"

When he didn't answer, Alfred suspected that he'd passed out. But then he saw his eyelids fluttering, gold lashes like stark silver in the moonlight. One of his fists twisted into Alfred's t-shirt.

Alfred groaned softly. "Kirkland, you're either an idiot or you trust me. Take your pick."

"I c-could be d-drunk," Arthur stuttered softly. And Alfred supposed they could both agree to take that last option for the time being.

Arthur fell silent, then, panting slightly, but otherwise not moving. The moonlight beamed across his face, harsh and revealing. It bleached his blonde hair out and every line on his face blacked in unforgiving shadow. His lips were a ghostly pale white. He looked like he belonged in a casket, backed by the stark black leather of the couch and even the ruby red cufflinks lightyears away on the table tinted his hollowed cheeks pink. His dress was askew and off kilter, stained and carelessly wrinkled. The first few buttons undone on his shirt, but his chin was ducked low into his chest, into Alfred's stomach.

His thin fingers were curled into useless fists that would hardly be able to help him in any fight. He was a scrapper and a talker, but not a fighter. Even his green eyes... Alfred frowned... the moonlight seemed to strip their color and life away.

"Where are your friends, huh?" he murmured into the silence, watching the ragged rise and fall of Arthur's chest. He raised his hand calmly and laid it near his ear, fingers tracing through Arthur's tangled silver hair. "Why are you here? I'm just some dude you hired... You don't want me like that. Where are the people that love you, eh, buddy? They wouldn't want to see you like this, right? Ssshhh."

Arthur had started to sniffle, dragging Alfred's t-shirt over to hide his face.

"It's just a rough night, Arthur. I promise. I shouldn'ta brought out the scotch anyway. I'm sorry. It's just a rough night. After the hangover, you can forget all about it, I promise."

"P-promise?"

"Yes," Alfred whispered heavily, "I promise, buddy."

And he found, as he watched Arthur fall asleep, that woven in the words somewhere was that same promise they'd shared earlier. Never to tell a soul. Never to mention it again. Never to even admit it existed. Neverland.


End file.
